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FIAMMETTA. 


This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greensward :  nothing  she  does  or 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself, 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Winter's  Tale,  Act  IV.  Sc.  3. 


FIAMMETTA 


A  SUMMER  IDYL 


BY 


WILLIAM  WETMORE   STORY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1886 


Copyright,  1885, 
BT  WILLIAM   W.  STORY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Iloughton  &  Co. 


FIAMMETTA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  last  days  of  June  had  come  and  gone 
in  Rome,  and  July,  still,  hot,  and  breathless, 
spread  its  cloudless  sky  over  the  city.  In  the 
villas  and  under  the  dark-green  ilexes  night 
ingales  were  still  pouring  forth  their  songs 
of  woe  ;  larks,  far  up  in  the  sky,  drowned  in 
its  light,  filled  the  air  of  the  Campagna  with 
a  continuous  ripple  of  far  fine  warblings. 
The  silent  stone-pines  poised  their  spreading 
green  canopies  in  the  hot  sunshine,  and  cast 
their  shadow  on  the  burnt  grass.  Flocks 
of  goats  crept  under  the  shade  of  the  lush 
hedges,  or  the  lower  hollows.  The  great 
gray  oxen,  tormented  by  flies,  plunged  into 
the  watercourses  and  lashed  their  sides  in 
vain  to  drive  away  those  pertinacious  pests. 
A  continuous  hum  of  insects  filled  the  air ; 
bees  were  busy  in  the  flowers  ;  ants  pursuing 
their  strange  voyages  everywhere  along  the 
1 


292023 


2 FI/.MMETTA. 

'eartn ;  "butterflies  floating  aimlessly  about,  as 
idle  as  the  ants  were  busy.  A  delicate  pur 
ple  veil  shrouded  the  distant  mountains  — 
where  here  and  there  gleamed  a  village  or 
town  along  their  slopes.  The  last  edge  of 
snow  had  vanished  from  the  highest  peak  of 
the  Leonessa,  and  surrendered  to  the  piercing 
arrows  of  the  sun.  The  grain  was  ripe  and 
yellow  in  the  plains,  and  scarcely  waved  its 
heavy  head  in  the  still  air.  The  gorgeous 
poppies  were  drooping  amid  the  corn.  The 
locusts  which  shrilled  and  sawed  all  the  long 
morning  and  seemed  to  heat  the  air,  paused 
and  took  their  siesta  after  noon  ;  and  they 
and  the  grilli  again  took  up  their  strain  when 
evening  came  on.  Summer  had  come.  Pan 
was  sleeping  at  high  noon,  and  a  mystery  of 
silent  sunshine  was  over  all. 

In  the  city,  the  sun  flashed  back  from 
houses  and  pavements  with  a  blinding  glare. 
Shops  were  closed  at  mid-day,  blinds  were 
shut,  curtains  drawn,  work  stopped  —  the 
world  of  Rome  took  its  siesta.  The  streets 
were  comparatively  empty,  and  the  few  who 
were  abroad  sought  the  narrow  strips  of 
shade,  and  crept  slowly  along  close  to  the 
walls.  Workmen  abandoned  their  toil,  and, 
stretched  in  the  shadow  and  along  the  church 


FJAMMETTA.  3 

steps,  slept  prone  upon  the  stones.  Nothing 
was  cool  save  the  fountains,  that  flashed  as 
they  flung  up  their  glittering  columns  in  the 
sun,  broke  into  pearl-showers  of  spray,  or 
welled  with  a  hollow  gurgle  into  the  broken 
and  mossy  marble  troughs  of  many  a  shadowy 
courtyard. 

As  the  afternoon  came  on,  the  world  again 
awoke  ;  shutters  and  blinds  were  opened,  and 
the  streets  began  to  fill  with  a  sauntering 
crowd.  As  the  sun  sloped  down  to  the  west, 
and  twilight  drew  near,  life  revived,  crowds 
thronged  into  the  piazzi,  and  sat  under  the 
awnings  of  the  restaurants  and  took  their 
ices  and  coffee.  Carriages  rolled  through 
the  streets  towards  the  Villa  Borghese ;  and 
there  was  a  steady  stream  on  foot  going  forth 
to  breathe  the  cooler  air,  to  lie  on  the  grass 
under  the  shadows,  and  to  saunter  along  its 
green  alleys.  Newsboys  screamed  their  even 
ing  papers  through  the  streets.  Limonari 
were  busy  again  in  the  kiosks.  Contadini 
and  workmen  rolled  their  boccie  along  the 
narrow  roads  outside  the  walls  of  the  city ; 
or,  returning  from  their  work,  shouted  their 
songs,  that  came  softened  by  distance  to  the 
ear.  In  the  osterias  on  the  Campagna, 
groups  were  gathered  in  the  open  air,  laugh- 


4  F '1 AM M ETTA. 

ing  and  talking,  and  strolling  *  home  as  the 
sun  dropped  below  the  horizon.  In  the  city, 
all  the  thronging  world  drew  a  long  sigh 
of  relief,  as  the  shadows  of  twilight  grew 
longer,  and  the  sharp  sun  pierced  no  longer 
into  the  narrow  streets. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  a  hot  summer's 
day,  in  the  early  part  of  July,  that  Marco 
Stenoni  was  still  working  in  his  studio.  His 
model,  a  tall  dark  girl  from  the  Abruzzi,  was 
standing  on  a  platform  before  him,  draped 
in  oriental  robes  and  shawls,  with  a  tall 
sword  in  her  hand,  and  a  weary  look  in  her 
eyes ;  while  he  was  nervously  busy  in  trans 
ferring  her  to  a  large  canvas,  representing 
Judith  after  the  slaying  of  Holofernes.  The 
picture  was  nearly  completed  to  all  appear 
ances  ;  but  it  was  evident  from  the  excited 
movements  of  the  artist,  as  he  brushed  away 
his  hair,  moved  back  hurriedly  from  the  can 
vas,  stared  alternately  at  the  portrait  and 
the  model,  then  rushed  up  to  the  picture  and 
added  a  stroke  to  it,  and  muttered  to  himself, 
that  he  was  not  satisfied.  Neither  spoke. 
He  was  too  busy,  in  his  mind  as  well  as  with 
his  hand.  She  was  totally  uninterested  in 
his  hero  and  tired,  and  was  wishing  for  the 
sitting  to  close.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed 


F 1AM M  ETTA.  5 

thus.  Then  Marco,  after  looking  at  the  pic 
ture  attentively  for  a  minute's  space,  laid 
down  his  palette  suddenly,  and  said  "  Basta. 
That  will  do.  I  cannot  see  any  more.  Take 
off  these  things  and  dress  yourself.  The 
light  is  gone,  and  I  am  tired." 

So  saying,  he  sank  down  into  a  large  arm 
chair  ;  stretched  his  arms  at  full  length  over 
his  head,  yawned,  exclaimed,  "  Bah !  how 
hot  it  is  ;  "  and  then  gave  himself  up  to  si 
lent  thought. 

The  model  retired  behind  the  screen  to 
change  her  dress. 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence.  At 
last  she  said,  "  When  shall  I  come  again, 
signore?  To-morrow?" 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  I  have  no  need  of 
you  for  the  present.  I  shall  let  the  picture 
alone  now.  It  is  getting  too  hot  to  work 
here  in  Rome,  and  I  am  going  away." 

"  Going  away !  "  she  said  with  surprise. 
"  I  am  sorry." 

"  Why  are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"Because  then  I  must  go  too.  Every 
body  is  going  away  —  or  rather,  everybody 
is  gone  but  you  —  and  I  shall  have  no  more 
work." 

"  And  where  shall  you  go  ?  " 


6  F I  AM M ETTA. 

Back  to  my  people  in  the  Abruzzi,  for 
the  summer." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  there  ?" 

"  Work !  siynore.  Work  in  the  fields 
and  in  the  sun.  It  will  be  hard  work,  too. 
We  poor  people  cannot  do  as  you  do,  and 
go  to  travel  and  to  be  idle  all  summer  long. 
How  I  should  like  to  travel !  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  travel.  I  am  go 
ing  back  into  the  country,  just  as  you  are, 
and  to  my  people  ;  or  rather,  to  where  my 
people,  as  you  call  them,  used  to  be,  for  un 
fortunately  I  have  not  any  people.  I  am  the 
last  of  my  tribe." 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  me  with  you." 

"  I  think  so,  indeed.  What  could  I  do 
with  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  would  work  for  you,  and  do  any 
thing  you  want." 

"  Ah,  well,  Nanna ;  but  that 's  impossible, 
you  know." 

"  I  suppose  so  —  of  course  —  naturally. 
You  ?11  be  back  in  the  autumn,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  If  I  can  serve  you  then  as  model,  I  hope 
you  won't  forget  me.  I  shall  be  back  by 
October." 

"  I  won't  forget  you,  Nanna." 


FIAMMETTA.  1 

"  A  rivederla,  then,  signore ;  a  pleasant 
summer  to  you,  and  a  good  turn  at  the  lot 
tery." 

"  Andfigli  maschi,  I  suppose." 

She  laughed  ;  said  "  Of  course,"  then 
shook  hands  with  him  and  went  out. 

He  sat  still  and  mused.  The  twilight 
was  growing  grayer  and  grayer,  but  there 
was  still  a  fair  light  in  the  studio.  It  was 
a  picturesque  room,  —  the  walls  fantastically 
hung  with  pieces  of  old  brocade,  some  ut 
terly  faded,  some  merely  toned  down  by 
age,  of  various  hues  and  patterns  and  sizes  ; 
old  vases,  majolica  jars,  and  plates  stood 
here  and  there  on  the  tables  or  affixed  to 
the  walls;  an  antique  Venetian  lantern 
of  worked  brass  hung  from  the  ceiling ; 
prints,  photographs,  engravings,  and  sketches 
in  color  were  scattered  everywhere  about. 
Two  large  divans,  covered  with  faded  stuffs, 
were  on  either  side,  with  large  cushions ; 
and  a  number  of  odd  chairs  of  various  pat 
terns  and  ages  stood  here  and  there,  reckless 
of  order.  In  fact,  there  was  no  order  any 
where,  and  it  was  this  very  absence  of  stiff 
order  which  lent  the  charm  to  the  room. 
Everything  was  accidental  and  scattered 
about,  as  it  happened  to  fall,  without  dis- 


8  FIAMMETTA. 

tinct  purpose  and  arrangement.  Still  it  was 
all  harmonious  and  picturesque,  and  the 
fading  light  and  deepening  shadows  made 
it  seem  even  more  so  ;  and  lent  it  a  certain 
peace  and  quiet  which  soothed  the  senses. 

For  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  Marco  sat 
and  mused,  half-definitely,  half-indefinitely 
dreaming.  While  he  dreams,  we  will  give 
a  glance  at  his  life  and  history,  and  sketch 
his  portrait. 

He  was  a  handsome  young  man  of  twenty- 
five  years  of  age,  rather  above  the  middle 
size,  firmly  built  but  slender  in  his  propor 
tions.  His  forehead  was  high  and  full,  with 
lifted  eyebrows,  his  nose  slightly  aquiline,  his 
mouth  full  and  large,  his  eyes  a  reddish- 
brown,  and  his  hair,  which  thickly  curled 
over  his  head,  blond  and  inclined  to  red,  his 
skin  fair  and  thin,  with  a  good  deal  of  color, 
his  temperament  nervous,  excitable,  and  im 
patient.  He  was,  as  he  had  said  to  Nanna, 
the  last  of  his  tribe  —  an  orphan  with  neither 
brothers  or  sisters  —  of  a  decayed  family  of 
Counts,  who  little  by  little  had  squandered 
their  patrimony,  and  fallen  into  poverty. 
His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  young. 
His  two  sisters,  both  older  than  he,  having 
no  dowry  or  means  of  support,  save  what 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  9 

their  father  could  give  them  for  their  daily 
needs  while  under  his  roof,  found  no  pretend 
ers  to  their  hands,  and  at  last,  disappointed 
and  disgusted  with  the  dull  life  they  were 
living,  betook  themselves  to  the  usual  re 
source  of  girls  in  a  similar  situation  in  Italy 
—  the  convent  —  where  they  became  nuns, 
and  after  pining  away  in  utter  inanity  for  a 
few  years  in  a  cloister,  died  like  birds  in  a 
cage.  The  elder  brother,  after  making  ducks 
and  drakes  of  the  small  sum  he  had  inherited 
from  his  mother  and  of  the  allowance  given 
him  by  his  father,  joined  the  volunteers  under 
Garibaldi,  and  perished  in  battle.  Marco 
was  thus  left  alone  with  his  father.  They 
lived  together,  until  he  had  attained  the  age 
of  fifteen,  in  a  villa  in  the  Apennines,  the 
last  remains  of  the  fortune  of  the  family  — 
a  dull,  sad,  eventless  life,  with  no  companions 
or  friends  save  the  farmers  and  fattori  of 
the  neighborhood  and  their  children,  and 
with  restricted  means.  His  father,  who  was 
proud  and  somewhat  stern  of  nature,  fretted 
constantly  against  the  restrictions  of  his  life 
and  the  meanness  of  his  fortune,  and  sought 
with  what  little  money  he  could  raise  to  en 
large  his  means  by  speculation.  But  all  his 
projects  turned  out  ill,  and  each  left  him 


10  FIAMMETTA. 

poorer  than  before.  He  had  faith,  however, 
that  his  son,  somehow  or  other,  would  re 
trieve  the  fortune  of  the  family.  He  was 
a  bright-spirited  boy,  full  of  ambition  and 
hopes;  but  during  his  early  years  he  had 
been  without  associates  of  his  own  class,  and 
had  for  the  most  part  lived  with  persons  be 
neath  his  position,  and  though  his  father 
had  given  him  a  fair  education,  his  tastes 
and  character  were  without  much  develop 
ment.  It  happened,  however,  that  by  ac 
cident  Carlo  Franzini,  an  artist  of  some 
celebrity,  strayed  into  the  neighborhood  one 
summer  to  make  some  sketches  of  scenery, 
and  with  him  Marco  made  an  acquaintance 
which  soon  ripened  into  one  of  those  en 
thusiastic  friendships  which  are  formed  only 
in  youth.  He  followed  his  new  friend  every 
where,  when  he  shot,  when  he  fished,  when 
he  strolled,  when  he  painted  ;  and  a  strong 
desire  came  over  him  to  be  an  artist  himself. 
His  friend,  who  liked  his  company,  and  was 
pleased  with  his  enthusiasm  and  an  admiration 
which  was  given  without  stint,  put  a  pencil 
and  brushes  in  his  hand,  and  gave  him  his 
first  lessons  in  painting.  lie  soon  developed 
a  decided  talent  for  art,  and  after  the  summer 
was  past  and  Carlo  was  about  to  take  leave 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  11 

of  the  country  and  return  to  Rome,  he  pro 
posed  to  Marco's  father  to  take  charge  of 
him,  carry  him  to  Rome,  and  educate  him  as 
a  painter.  The  old  count  was  delighted  to 
accept  this  offer ;  and  so  it  was  arranged  that 
Marco  should  accompany  his  friend.  The 
only  question  was  one  of  money,  but  this  was 
soon  settled.  Little  was  needed.  Marco 
promised  to  restrict  his  expenditure  within 
the  smallest  limits.  The  old  count  squeezed 
out  of  his  purse  all  that  he  could  command, 
and  Marco  set  forth  delighted. 

Rome  was  to  him  a  new  world  of  experi 
ences  and  delights.  There  were  seductions 
on  every  side,  to  idleness,  to  extravagance, 
and  to  vice,  as  well  as  to  art.  But  the  reso 
lution  of  Marco  was  strong.  He  lived  sparely 
and  worked  hard,  and  soon  began  to  attract 
attention  among  the  artists,  and  to  do  fair 
work.  His  ambition  was  great,  his  talent 
decided.  Little  by  little  he  found  purchasers 
of  his  sketches  and  pictures,  and  began  to 
make  a  name  for  himself,  and  after  a  few 
years  he  earned  enough  by  his  profession  to 
support  himself  without  assistance  from  his 
father.  At  first  he  had  restricted  himself 
almost  solely  to  his  studio  and  to  his  artist 
friends ;  but  as  his  prospects  grew  better, 


12  FIAMMETTA. 

he  went  more  into  society,  though  it  seemed 
to  exercise  little  influence  on  his  life  and 
thoughts.  Essentially  a  dreamer  and  of  a 
poetic  temperament,  he  found  little  pleasure 
in  the  scandal  and  personal  talk  which  was 
the  current  coin  of  the  society  he  frequented, 
and  his  main  delight  was  his  studio. 

Two  years  previous  to  the  time  when  we 
now  find  him,  he  suddenly  received  a  letter 
announcing  the  grave  illness  of  his  father, 
and  requesting  his  immediate  presence  if  he 
wished  to  see  him  again  alive.  He  instantly 
hurried  back  to  the  old  villa,  and  arrived 
there  but  a  few  hours  before  the  old  man's 
death.  The  count  stretched  out  his  hand  to 
him  feebly  as  he  entered  the  room,  smiled, 
and  said,  "  I  was  afraid  I  should  not  see  you 
again,  Marco.  But  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
I  thank  you  for  coming." 

His  son  bent  over  him,  kissed  him,  and 
took  his  hand.  His  father  pressed  it  feebly, 
and  after  a  moment's  silence  said  — 

"  I  am  going  —  very  fast  —  and  it  will 
soon  be  over,  and  I  am  not  sorry.  I  have 
made  a  poor  hand  of  it  in  this  great  game 
of  life,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  throw  up  my 
cards." 

Here  his  son  interfered,  and  began  to  say 


FIAMMETTA.  13 

some  consoling  words,  but  his  father  stopped 
him  — 

"  Don't  interrupt  me.  Listen  to  me.  I 
have  very  little  breath.  Let  me  say  what  I 
have  got  to  say  while  I  can.  I  have  done 
ill  with  my  life ;  don't  follow  my  example. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  leave  you  almost  nothing. 
My  debts,  my  debts  —  how  they  have  tor 
mented  me !  How  they  still  continue  to  tor 
ment  me  !  But  you  will  pay  them  off  —  as 
you  can  —  if  you  can.  I  have  hopes,  great 
hopes,  of  you.  You  must  raise  the  fallen 
fortunes  of  the  family.  You  must,  you  will 
do  better  than  I.  Don't  speculate  —  don't 
play  —  don't  waste  your  life  as  I  have  mine. 
God  bless  you.  You  have  been  a  good  boy 
—  a  good  son." 

Here  he  fell  back  exhausted,  while  Marco, 
with  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  gazed  at  him, 
and  said  some  words  of  encouragement,  and 
hoped  he  would  still  get  well,  and  that  he 
must  not  give  up  life.  But  the  old  man 
scarcely  seemed  to  hear  him.  He  was  wan 
dering  away  in  mind,  and  struggling  with  a 
thought  which  worried  and  tormented  him. 

"It  is  sadly  encumbered,  the  old  place,"  he 
murmured.  "  How  shall  I  pay  it  off  ?  There 
will  be  almost  nothing  left.  Those  debts !  " 


14  F1AMMETTA. 

Then  he  roused  again. 

"  I  trust  you,  Marco.  I  believe  in  you. 
Good  boy  —  good-by  —  pray  for  me." 

Then  he  dropped  away,  and  seemed  to 
lose  all  sense  of  outward  things,  and  after 
an  hour  passed  silently  out  of  this  world. 

After  the  funeral,  when  Marco  began  to 
look  carefully  into  the  condition  of  the  prop 
erty,  he  found  that  his  father's  previsions 
proved  only  too  true.  The  estate  was 
deeply  mortgaged  ;  there  was  almost  nothing 
to  pay  the  present  debts.  Creditors  were 
imperious ;  and  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  sell  out  nearly  everything.  The 
house  itself,  however,  with  a  couple  of  farms, 
he  was  able  to  reserve,  on  assurance  that  he 
would  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage ;  and 
this,  hard  as  it  pressed  upon  him,  he  did. 
He  could  not  bear  to  give  up  the  old  villa 
where  his  youth  had  been  spent.  "  I  will 
keep  this,  at  least,"  he  said;  "and  perhaps 
—  perhaps  —  if  all  goes  well,  some  time  I 
may  be  able  to  buy  back  the  rest." 

So,  having  settled  this  point,  and  retained 
the  old  steward  and  stewardess  to  look  after 
the  farms  and  house  in  his  absence,  he  re 
turned  to  Rome  and  to  his  work  in  the  studio. 

After  this  his  prospects  began  to  grow 


FIAMMETTA.  15 

brighter  and  brighter.  His  pictures  sold 
well  and  at  good  prices ;  and  he  steadily 
laid  by  all  he  could  spare  to  carry  out  his 
project  of  redeeming  the  old  place. 

Two  years   had  thus  gone  by,  when  we 
find  him  at  the  close  of  a  hot  day  in  July  - 
the  work  of  the  day  done  —  dreaming  wide 
awake  in  his  chair. 

From  his  musings  he  was  aroused  by  a 
knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in  !  "  he  cried, 
and  the  door  was  opened  by  his  friend  Carlo. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Carlo,  "  I  am  glad  to  find 
you  in.  It  is  so  late,  that  I  was  afraid  you 
would  have  gone." 

"  Yes,  it  is  late,"  said  Marco.  "  But  I  am 
tired  of  work,  and  was  sitting  here  dream- 
ing.  Take  a  seat.  I  am  glad  you  have 
come  in,  for  I  was  going  to  see  you,  as  soon 
as  I  had  cleaned  my  palette  and  brushes,  to 
say  good-by." 

"  Good-by !     Are  you  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  tired  of  my  work.  It  does 
not  satisfy  me,  and  it  is  growing  too  hot 
here.  I  am  off  to-morrow  for  the  summer." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Up  to  the  villa.  The  fact  is,  I  ought  to 
go  there.  I  have  not  been  there,  you  know, 
since  my  father  died,  and  the  eye  of  the 


16  FIAMMETTA. 

master,  you  know,  etc.  ;  and  besides,  I  have 
not  had  a  holiday  for  so  long,  and  I  need  it. 
It  will  give  me  new  life.  I  want  to  breathe 
the  country  air  again,  and  to  lie  under  the 
trees.  This  hot,  stifling  breath  of  the  city 
enervates  me  :  all  my  faculties  seem  to  stag 
nate  here.  I  should  like  to  feel  the  rough 
grasp  of  a  peasant's  hand,  to  hear  the  hearty 
old  greetings  of  the  country  folks,  to  swing 
an  axe,  to  delve  in  the  soil,  to  wander 
through  the  lonely  woods,  to  stretch  myself 
on  the  breast  of  dear  Mother  Earth,  as  I 
used  to  do  in  the  good  old  days  of  boyhood. 
Ah,  yes !  all  the  days  of  boyhood  are  good 
old  days :  we  forget  the  troubles,  and  only 
remember  the  pleasures.  I  want  to  get 
nearer  to  nature  —  to  be  blown  upon  by  the 
free  air ;  to  be  drenched  by  the  pouring  rain ; 
to  clamber  over  the  mountains  ;  to  hear  the 
wild  torrents  dash  from  their  boulders  ;  to 
listen  to  the  bleat  of  sheep,  the  low  of  cows, 
the  cheering  clarion  of  cocks  —  in  fact,  to 
be  at  home  again.  Home  !  yes,  for  home  is 
always  where  we  grew  up  as  boys.  Here  I 
am,  sick  at  heart,  sick  of  eternal  trouble 
and  scandal,  and  sick  of  jealousies  that 
gnaw  the  green  out  of  life's  leaves  :  sick  of 
art  and  models,  and  pictures  and  cities.  I 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  17 

need  a  new  bath  in  nature.  I  am  getting 
into  a  rut :  nothing  answers  my  wishes  even 
in  art.  Look  at  that  picture  that  I  am  now 
painting  —  I  hate  it !  I  am  sick  of  Judith 
and  Holofernes,  and  the  whole  lot  of  them ! 
Something  is  evidently  the  matter  with  me, 
for  nothing  answers  —  nothing  goes  right." 

"  Ah  !  yes,"  answered  Carlo  ;  "  you  have 
overworked  yourself,  and  it  is  time  for  you 
to  have  some  change.  You  are  right :  go 
into  the  country  —  it  will  revive  you.  I 
wish  I  could  go  with  you." 

"  Do,  do  !  ah,  that  would  be  delightful ! 
Come  with  me.  I  can  give  you  a  room  — 
aye,  as  many  rooms  as  you  like  —  and  the 
freedom  of  the  place,  and  rough  country 
fare.  Come,  and  we  will  revive  the  old  days 
and  be  boys  again." 

"  Impossible  —  at  least  for  the  present. 
Later,  if  you  are  still  there,  I  will  try  to 
find  you.  But  now  it  is  simply  impossible." 

"  Well,  only  promise  me  that  you  will 
come.  You  will  find  me  there  all  summer, 
and  I  shall  always  give  you  the  warmest 
welcome.  I  never  forget  what  I  owe  you. 
You  made  me  and  saved  me." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  made  and  saved  your 
self." 

2 


18  Fl AMU ETTA. 

"  "Well,  we  won't  banter  words.  What 
is  —  is,  and  nothing  will  alter  it.  If  I  had 
never  had  the  luck  to  know  you,  I  should 
probably  have  stayed  where  I  was,  and 
rotted  my  life  away  to  no  purpose.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I.  You  need  not 
shake  your  head.  But  I  '11  say  no  more 
about  it.  To  change  the  subject,  what  do 
you  think  of  my  Judith  ?  Tell  me  frankly 
-I  hate  it." 

"  That  is  going  too  far.  You  are  tired  of 
it,  that 's  all.  That  is  a  mood  which  comes 
over  every  artist  at  certain  times  ;  all  his 
work  looks  wretched  to  him,  however  good 
it  be." 

"  But  speak  frankly.  You  know  how  I 
value  your  opinion.  Is  it  worth  anything  or 
not  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is.     It  is  very  clever." 

"  Clever !  I  hate  the  word  clever.  That 
means  that  it  has  no  soul  in  it." 

"  No  !  I  do  not  mean  that  exactly.  If 
you  ask  my  honest  opinion  —  and  of  course 
you  do  —  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think.  The 
work  is  clever  —  in  parts,  very  clever  — 
perhaps  too  clever.  It  has  spirit,  vigor  of 
touch,  and  excellent  brush-work.  That  man 
tle,  for  instance,  is  admirable  ;  that  fringe 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  19 

masterly.  One  sees  at  once  that  you  know 
your  technique  —  that  you  know  how  to 
paint.  The  background  is  excellent,  and 
the  figure  comes  well  off  from  it.  But  "  — 

Here  Carlo  paused  and  hesitated. 

"  But  —  oh,  yes ;  but  —  I  know  what  that 
means  —  but  it  has  no  soul  in  it.  I  told  you 
that  was  what  you  meant  when  you  said  it 
was  clever.  Out  with  it!  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  —  that  is,  with  certain 
qualifications.  What  I  was  going  to  say, 
however,  was  that,  well  as  you  have  rendered 
your  subject,  despite  the  skill  and  knowledge 
you  have  displayed  in  the  treatment,  it  does 
not,  in  my  opinion,  as  a  subject,  suit  your 
peculiar  genius.  Your  heart  was  not  really 
in  it.  Your  path  lies  in  a  different  direc 
tion,  and  one  must  do  what  his  own  nature 
prescribes  really  to  succeed.  It  is  useless 
to  kick  against  the  pricks  :  each  must  follow 
the  bent  of  his  own  genius.  Yours  does  not 
lie  in  the  direction  of  the  cruel,  the  violent, 
the  stern  ;  but  rather  in  the  poetic,  the  ideal. 
Even  the  fantastic  suits  you  better  than  the 
intense  ;  grace  is  your  gift  more  than  power ; 
why  not  follow  the  natural  lead  of  your  im 
agination,  rather  than  force  it  into  artificial 
paths  ?  Those  of  your  pictures  which  have 


20  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

pleased  me  the  most  —  some  of  them  have 
pleased  me  greatly  —  are  in  the  vein  of  senti 
ment,  of  romance,  of  refinement.  The  heroic 
is  another  sort  of  thing,  alien  to  your  powers. 
Now,  Judith  is  nothing  unless  she  is  heroic, 
stern,  powerful.  Why  did  you  seek  such  a 
subject  ?  In  the  first  place,  it  is  utterly  worn 
out;  galleries  everywhere  are  peopled  with 
Judiths  —  all  black-haired,  all  with  a  great 
sword,  all  after  a  certain  prescribed  pattern. 
For  my  part,  I  think  her  a  detestable  crea 
ture,  and  I  have  had  enough  of  her ;  but  that 
is  neither  here  nor  there.  If  I  could  even 
see  any  one  picture  of  real  power  and  origi 
nality  of  conception,  I  could  admire  it  despite 
of  it  being  Judith  ;  but  I  never  do  see  one, 
nor  do  I  ever  see  a  David  that  is  not  an  ugly 
little  gamin,  with  the  head  of  an  ogre  at  his 
side  to  represent  Goliath.  Last  year's  ex 
hibition  was  full  of  them.  I  am,  therefore, 
I  suppose,  not  a  fair  judge  of  such  pictures ; 
I  am  prejudiced  against  them  at  the  very 
outset.  Why  did  you  select  Judith  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  for  variety.  I 
got  tired  of  myself,  and  weary  with  doing  the 
same  sort  of  thing  over  and  over  again.  But 
what  you  say  is  true  —  I  acknowledge  it.  I 
have  never  had  any  heart'  in  this  picture,  and 


FIAMMETTA.  21 

now  I  hate  it!      It  drives  me  away  from 
Rome.     I  've  a  great  mind  to  destroy  it." 

"  No,  no !  That  is  going  too  far  the  other 
way.  Many,  I  dare  say,  will  admire  it.  It 
will  appeal  to  their  minds  ;  but  I  confess,  to 
speak  frankly,  I  do  not  care  for  it,  despite 
its  talent  and  its  good  work.  Technique 
is  admirable  as  a  means,  abominable  as  an 
end;  and  nowadays  art  seems  to  me  to  be 
running  solely  into  mere  technique  —  the 
hand  is  of  more  value  than  the  head.  But 
you  have  real  imagination,  and  I  shall  be 
sorry  to  see  you  following  the  lead  of  certain 
artists  of  our  day,  whose  only  desire  seems 
to  be  to  startle  and  surprise,  even  by  the 
sacrifice  of  all  beauty ;  and  who  go  so  far  as 
to  preach  loudly  the  gospel  of  the  ugly  and 
the  common,  and  to  cry  out  wildly  that,  as 
nature  is  ugly  —  often  very  ugly  —  so  art 
should  be;  that  perfection  exists  nowhere, 
and  ought  not  to  be  sought  for  ;  that  the  real 
is  never  ideal ;  and  that  what  art  has  to  do  is 
to  copy  nature  just  as  it  happens  to  be,  even 
though  ugly  and  deformed.  My  notion  is 
absolutely  the  contrary.  Art,  in  my  opinion, 
is  no  slave  to  nature,  and  no  art  is  worth 
anything  except  in  so  far  as  it  is  ideal  — 
that  is,  that  it  uses  nature  as  a  language  and 


22  FIAMMETTA. 

means  to  express  an  idea  —  a  conception  — 
a  creation  of  the  imagination.     But  I  will 
not  preach  any  more." 

"  Oh,  preach  on  !  preach  on  !  I  like  to 
hear  you." 

"  No !  I  will  preach  no  more ;  but  I  will 
give  you  an  instance,  a  personal  instance,  of 
what  I  think  of  your  powers.  Your  Judith 
has  many  fine  qualities  as  work,  but  it  has 
no  originality  of  conception,  and  it  is  not  in 
your  way.  Now  I  do  remember  a  sketch 
you  once  showed  me  that  struck  me  as  thor 
oughly  adapted  to  your  genius,  and  which  I 
thought  eminently  original  and  full  of  charm. 
It  represented  a  naiad  seated  on  a  mossy 
boulder,  one  foot  dropped  into  a  clear,  brown, 
pebbly  pool,  which  caught  the  reflections  of 
the  overhanging  trees.  She  was  utterly 
alone  —  utterly  unconscious.  The  torrent 
which  fed  this  pool  sang  as  it  foamed  and 
sparkled  over  the  rocks.  There  was  a  whis 
per  of  trees,  through  which  the  sun  glinted 
far  up  the  distance  ;  and  yet  silence  brooded 
over  the  whole  place,  and  serenity  filled  the 
air,  and  there  was  a  feeling  of  the  antique 
in  the  simplicity,  the  self -surrender,  the  abso 
lute  unconsciousness  of  any  beholder,  which 
charmed  me.  There  was  a  thought,  a  feel- 


FIAMMETTA.  23 

ing,  a  conception  in  this  sketch  which  touched 
me  like  a  poem.  It  was  a  little  poem  in  fact. 
It  was  quite  outside  of  our  workaday  world. 
It  was  not  mere  talk  and  twaddle,  as  many 
of  our  pictures  are,  but  language  in  verse 
and  rhythm  —  in  a  word,  an  idyl  of  nature. 
You  will  say  the  subject  is  not  much  of  a 
subject.  But  it  is  not  the  subject ;  it  is  the 
mode  in  which  it  is  rendered  which  makes  it 
prosaic  or  poetic.  It  is  not  that  a  thought 
is  grammatically  expressed  that  makes  it  a 
poem,  and  it  is  not  literal  imitation  of  nature 
that  makes  a  work  of  art  enchanting.  Yes ; 
enchanting  is  the  word.  Artists  must  en 
chant  as  poets  do ;  and  nature  is  never  good 
in  art  until  it  is  enchanted  by  the  soul  of  the 
artist." 

"  Oh  !  you  overestimate  that  little  sketch. 
It  is  really  nothing  of  itself.  You  have 
added,  by  your  gracious  interpretation,  all 
the  poetry." 

"  Have  I  said  anything  you  did  not  feel 
when  you  made  it  ?  " 

u  No ;  I  admit  that  was  what  I  sought  to 
say.  But  what  I  had  to  say  and  what  I  felt 
was  too  fine  to  express,  and  I  did  not  ex 
press  it." 

"  Where  is  the  sketch  ?  Let  me  see  it 
again." 


24  FJAMMETTA. 

Marco  went  to  the  side  of  the  studio, 
pulled  out  a  page  portfolio,  and  turned  over 
its  leaves  for  a  few  moments.  At  last  he 
said,  "  Ah,  yes,  here  it  is  at  last !  I  am  not 
a  little  ashamed  to  show  it  to  you  after  all 
your  panegyric." 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

And  Marco  gave  it  to  him.  Carlo  took  it, 
looked  at  it  carefully  for  some  minutes  with 
out  saying  a  word. 

"  Well,"  said  Marco,  "  what  do  you  think 
now?" 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  sketch ;  but  it  has  the 
element  of  all  I  said  I  saw  in  it.  The  ques 
tion  is,  can  you  ever  carry  out  that  sketch 
without  losing  its  soul  ?  Can  you  keep  that 
feeling  of  innocence,  privacy,  serenity  that 
is  here  simply  indicated,  when  you  elaborate 
it  into  a  picture  ?  It  is  now  a  suggestion 
full  of  delicacy  and  refinement ;  but  can  you 
preserve  this  light  volatile  spirit,  and  make 
your  Ariel  do  the  magician's  work  ?  If  you 
can,  you  will  make  a  charming  picture. 
But  where  will  you  find  your  naiad  ?  They 
have  abandoned  our  streams,  and  in  their 
stead  sits  a  vulgar  factory  girl,  and  counts 
her  wages.  If  you  can  find  the  naiad,  all 
well ;  but  if  you  paint  the  factory  girl,  good- 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  25 

by  to  all  the  sentiment  which  charms  in 
this  sketch." 

"And  you  really  advise  me  to  paint 
this?" 

"  I  do ;  and  let  it  be  your  summer's  work. 
You  are  going  into  the  country,  among  the 
wild  forests  and  glens  of  the  Apennines,  and 
perhaps  you  may  find  there  your  inspira 
tion  as  well  as  your  facts  ;  only  don't  let  the 
facts  smother  the  inspiration.  If  you  take 
my  advice,  you  will  paint  this  picture  this 
summer.  You  have  nature  to  choose  from, 
and  good  luck  be  with  you." 

"  I  will  do  so.  At  all  events,  I  will  take 
the  sketch  with  me,  and  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  And  when  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  by  the  half-past  ten  train." 

"  Half-past  ten.  I  will  be  there  then, 
and  see  you  off.  I  will  leave  you  now,  for 
you  must  have  a  good  deal  to  do  in  putting 
your  things  together." 

So  saying,  Carlo  left  his  friend  to  huddle 
together,  after  the  fashion  of  man,  the 
things  he  intended  to  take,  and  to  crowd 
them  into  his  portmanteau  in  a  way  that 
would  have  made  a  woman  weep.  Boots 
and  shirts  and  portfolios,  and  coats  and 
boxes  and  bottles,  were  crammed  pell-mell 


26  F I  AM M  ETTA. 

in,  to  fight  it  out  as  they  could  with  each 
other ;  and  Marco  was  well  pleased  at  last, 
when,  after  sitting  on  the  portmanteau,  and 
crowding  the  hasp  of  the  lock  into  its  place, 
he  succeeded  in  turning  the  key,  and  stood 
up  flushed  and  panting  with  his  exertions. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

THE  next  morning,  true  to  his  word,  Carlo 
was  at  the  train.  There  is  nothing  more 
boring  both  to  the  traveller  and  his  friends 
than  this  meeting  to  say  "Good-by"  at  a 
train.  Conversation  is  impossible.  The  trav 
eller's  mind  is  occupied  with  his  luggage, 
in  getting  his  seat  and  settling  himself,  and 
thinking  whether  he  has  left  this  or  that  thing 
behind;  and  when  this  is  all  arranged,  his 
thoughts  are  still  astray  and  disorganized. 
He  shakes  hands  and  talks  spasmodically, 
and  suddenly  recollects  something,  and  feels 
after  his  pocket-book  to  see  that  that  is  all 
right,  and  sends  messages  to  his  friends 
which  will  never  be  delivered;  and  his 
friends  wish  him  a  good  journey  and  a  pleas 
ant  summer  over  and  over  again,  and  try  to 
think  of  something  to  say,  and  smile  and 
stand  about,  and  ask  idle  questions,  and  tell 
him  the  day  is  charming,  and  hope  he  will 
not  find  it  too  hot  or  too  cold,  and  wish  they 
were  going  with  him,  and  say  they  suppose 


28  FIAMMETTA. 

he  will  return  at  such  or  such  a  time,  and  if 
he  sees  Blank,  to  tell  him  or  her  they  are 
well,  and  send  him  or  her  greetings  ;  and 
finally,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all,  the  bell 
rings,  and  the  guards  begin  to  shut  the  doors  ; 
and  then  he  shakes  hands  again  and  says 
Good-by,  and  mounts  into  the  carriage  and 
again  looks  up  at  the  rack  and  counts  his 
luggage,  and  feels  in  his  pocket  to  see  if  his 
tickets  are  there  and  his  luggage  receipt, 
and  finding  them  all  right,  he  leans  on  both 
elbows  out  of  the  window,  to  the  annoyance 
of  the  other  passengers  within  ;  and  all  the 
company  look  at  their  watches  or  at  the 
great  clock  in  the  station,  and  the  engine  be 
gins  to  puff,  and  makes  a  feint  of  starting 
and  then  stops ;  and  all  are  interested  in  a 
late  traveller,  who,  hot  and  perspiring  and 
out  of  breath,  is  hurried  along  the  platform 
and  shuffled  into  a  place,  glad  to  find  any 
thing  to  occupy  their  attention ;  and  when 
he  is  fairly  in,  and  the  bell  rings,  and  the 
train  begins  to  move,  all  cry  out  again  Good- 
by,  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  wave  their 
handkerchiefs  or  lift  their  hats  and  smile, 
and  watch  the  train  as  it  clatters  out  of  the 
station,  and  then,  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief 
that  it  is  over,  turn  away,  and  go  home. 


FIAMMETTA.  29 

The  last  words  that  Carlo  said  were, 
"  Good  luck  to  you  !  and  I  hope  you  '11  find 
your  naiad.  Let  me  know  if  you  do." 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction,  as  if 
he  had  thrown  off  a  weight  from  his  shoul 
ders,  that  Marco  leaned  back  at  last  in  his 
seat  when  the  agitations  of  getting  off  were 
over,  and  saw  the  Campagna  slip  by  him. 
The  day  was  delightful,  a  light  breeze  fanned 
through  the  carriage,  and  he  had  the  boon 
of  silence  ;  all  his  work  was  behind  him, 
and  he  was  glad  to  be  away  from  it.  His 
fellow-travellers  were  strangers,  and  he  could 
give  himself  up  to  his  own  thoughts  and  re 
flections,  and  gaze  undisturbed  at  the  scene 
that  rolled  out  before  him  with  ever-varying 
lights  and  shadows,  —  the  mountains  veiled 
in  violet  mists ;  the  many  fields  of  ripening 
grain  ;  the  gleaming  watercourses  ;  the  con- 
tadini  toiling  in  the  sun  ;  the  groups  of  reap 
ers  that  stopped  from  their  work  to  gaze 
at  the  passing  train  ;  the  great  gray  oxen, 
wandering  here  and  there  in  herds,  or  gath 
ered  in  groups  in  the  shadow  of  some  tall 
tree,  or  along  the  green  clumps  and  thickets 
overhanging  some  stream  or  pool ;  the  broad 
fields,  painted  with  masses  of  scarlet  poppies 
and  snowy  daisies,  golden  buttercups,  dande- 


30  FIAMMETTA. 

lions,  mustard,  and  a  myriad  wild  flowers. 
The  air  was  scented  with  the  odors  of  new- 
mown  hay ;  larks  were  raining  a  mist  of 
songs  from  the  blue  heights  of  the  sky ;  and 
all  these  sights  and  sounds  and  odors  lulled 
his  senses,  and  passed  like  a  vision  before 
him.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  drink  in 
this  beauty,  as  the  meadows  drank  in  the 
sunshine. 

And  so  the  hours  slipped  away,  with  per 
petual  beauty,  perpetual  change,  the  dream 
interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  nightmare 
of  some  hideous  station,  with  its  dreary  prose, 
its  grimy  walls,  its  foul  odors  of  smoke  and 
oil,  its  noise,  cattle,  confusion,  and  vulgarity. 

It  was  towards  evening  that  he  arrived  at 
the  station  where  he  was  to  stop.  As  usual, 
there  was  assembled  on  the  platform  a  little 
group  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  had  villas 
in  the  vicinity,  and  to  whom,  in  the  dull 
routine  of  their  aimless  life,  the  evening  ar 
rival  of  the  train  from  Rome  was  an  event 
of  interest.  Who  knows  what  friend  they 
might  catch  a  glimpse  of  in  passing,  and 
shake  hands  with,  and  ask  the  news  of  the 
city,  for  which  they  pined  while  they  were 
away  ?  For  it  is  only  the  exceptional  Ital 
ian  who  looks  at  his  country  life  in  any 


F I  AM M ETTA.  31 

other  light  than  that  of  exile,  and  who  does 
not  long  to  be  back  again  in  the  crowded 
city,  and  to  sit  in  the  cafes  and  watch  the 
life  in  the  piazzi,  and  wander  on  the  public 
promenades  and  listen  to  the  bands,  and 
talk  gossip.  Among  them,  however,  Marco 
found  no  acquaintances,  and  was  well  pleased 
,to  find  none.  As  he  hurriedly  got  out  his 
luggage  and  stepped  on  the  platform,  how 
ever,  he  caught  the  well-known  face  of  Pas- 
quale,  the  vetturino,  who  had  so  often  driven 
him  over  the  mountains  when  he  was  a  boy. 
Pasquale's  red  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile 
as  he  recognized  him,  and  coming  forward 
and  taking  off  his  hat,  he  cried,  — 

"But  how  is  this?  You  here,  Signer 
Conte !  and  how  are  you  ?  Well,  I  hope  ; 
and  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  answered  Marco ;  "  and  you 
—  the  same,  I  hope." 

"  All  well,  and  a  thousand  thanks,  except 
Maria.  You  know  the  little  Maria?  she 
has  taken  some  medicine  to-day  ;  a  little  dis 
turbance,  not  serious.  She  will  be  all  right 
to-morrow." 

When  an  Englishman  says,  "  How  do  you 
do  ?  "  his  friend  replies,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
and  neither  answers  the  question.  But  an 


82  F1AMMETTA. 

Italian  invariably  gives  you  a  complete  ac 
count  of  himself,  stating  all  the  particulars 
of  his  health  if  he  is  not  quite  well,  and 
what  he  has  done  for  himself,  and  what  med 
icines  he  has  taken,  and  he  expects  you  to 
do  the  same.  It  is  not  with  them  a  mere 
formality  of  salutation. 

"  But,"    continued   Pasquale,  after   these « 
preliminaries  were  settled,  "  where  is  your 
luggage  ?     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"You  are  just  the  man  I  want,"  said 
Marco.  "  I  am  going  up  to  the  old  place  to 
spend  a  month  or  two,  and  I  want  a  good 
little  bagasino  —  one  horse,  you  know  —  to 
carry  me  there  —  one  horse  will  do." 

"  I  've  exactly  the  thing  for  you,  if  you 
have  not  much  luggage." 

"  Oh  no,  a  couple  of  valises,  and  a  port 
folio  and  paint-box.  There  they  are." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  we  can  manage  those." 

"  Well,  stir  about !  I  'm  in  a  hurry  ;  and 
it  will  take  us  two  good  hours  to  get  there 
at  least,  if  your  horse  is  good." 

"  The  best  little  horse  in  the  place,  no  mat 
ter  what  the  other  is.  And  here  he  is  just 
outside." 

So  that  was  all  settled.  The  bagasino 
was  a  little  one-seated  trap,  with  a  rope-net- 


FIAMMETTA.  33 

ted  bottom  and  two  wheels,  such  as  is  used 
to  go  over  the  mountains,  and  the  horse  was 
one  of  those  sturdy  Tuscan  ponies  that  will 
stand  any  amount  of  work,  and  are  not  want 
ing  either  in  speed. 

In  a  few  moments  the  luggage  was  in ; 
the  beggars  who  thronged  about  them  ceased 
their  litany  of  whining  when  Marco  tossed 
among  them  a  few  soldi,  for  which  they 
scrambled  and  fought ;  and  off  went  the 
pony  at  a  good  round  pace,  Pasquale  mak 
ing  the  streets  of  the  little  village  echo  to 
the  continuous  crack  of  his  whip,  saluting 
the  villagers  that  nodded  to  him  on  either 
side  as  he  passed,  his  little  Pomeranian  dog 
barking  like  mad  at  everybody  and  every 
thing,  as  he  whirled  about  on  the  back  of 
the  vehicle  right  and  left,  the  wheels  rat 
tling  over  the  pavement  with  a  grinding  din, 
and  the  bells  on  the  pony's  neck  ringing 
merrily.  Once  off  the  pavement  and  out  of 
the  town,  the  bagasino  rolled  easily  along 
to  the  chime  of  the  bells,  and  the  din  was 
over. 

"  A  capital  little  pony  this  of  yours,"  said 
Marco. 

This  simple  remark  was  a  key  which 
opened  endless  rooms,  suite  after  suite,  of 


34  FIAMMETTA. 

horse-talk,  —  the  age  of  the  pony,  where  he 
was  found,  how  he  was  bargained  for,  how 
Pasquale  had  been  offered  double  his  price 
for  him,  how  he  would  not  part  from  him 
for  the  best  pair  of  horses  in  town,  how  lit 
tle  he  ate,  how  many  miles  he  could  go,  how 
capital  he  was  as  a  saddle-horse,  —  and  then 
followed  long  stories  about  his  feats,  and 
about  other  horses,  that  lasted  an  hour  at 
least ;  and  Pasquale  had  not  even  then  told 
the  half  he  had  to  tell. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  was  westering,  the 
shadows  were  sloping  low,  the  sunset  clouds 
grew  rosy  in  the  west,  the  cool  breeze  began 
to  come  damply  up  the  valleys,  the  cows 
were  wandering  home,  the  sheep  were  fol 
lowing  the  shepherd  to  their  fold,  and  gradu 
ally  a  gray  veil  spread  over  the  whole  earth. 
The  road,  which  for  some  miles  had  been 
nearly  level,  now  began  to  rise  and  grow 
steeper  and  steeper;  sometimes  clinging 
along  the  side  of  a  precipitous  slope,  some 
times  traversing  a  bridge  under  which  a  tor 
rent  flowed  weakly,  that  in  winter  was  a  fu 
rious  river,  sometimes  again  descending  for 
a  space,  only  to  clamber  up  again.  Little 
by  little  the  vineyards  with  their  rich  and 
drooping  festoons  ceased ;  and  the  smoky 


FIAMMETTA.  35 

olives  laid  out  in  regular  rows  were  no 
longer  seen,  save  as  one  looked  down  on  to 
the  valley.  And  in  their  stead  rose  groves 
of  chestnuts  and  firs.  Here  and  there  was 
a  gray  old  farmhouse  or  villa,  or  ruin  of  an 
old  castle  ;  and  at  long  intervals  a  grimy  di 
lapidated  town.  The  air  was  every  moment 
growing  cooler  as  they  ascended,  and  night 
came  on.  Against  the  still  light  sky  great 
shadowy  mountains  turned  their  dark  sides, 
silent  and  vague  and  mysterious.  As  the 
light  faded  out  of  the  west,  a  silvery  splen 
dor  was  seen  in  the  east ;  and  the  full 
moon  rose  and  brimmed  the  valleys  with  its 
dim  and  ghostly  pallor,  and  a  silence  came 
over  all  nature,  broken  only  by  fitful  gushes 
of  the  nightingales,  the  long  hoot  of  an 
owl,  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  on  the  pony,  and 
the  continuous  whisper  of  the  grilli  on  the 
grass.  Conversation  had  long  ceased.  It 
seemed  to  Marco  an  impertinence  to  talk  in 
such  a  presence  ;  and  even  Pasquale  seemed 
to  feel  its  influence,  or,  at  all  events,  to  per 
ceive  that  his  companion  desired  silence,  and 
he  interupted  it  only  now  and  then  with  a 
chirrup  to  the  pony. 

Marco,  as  they  went  along,  was  dreaming 
of  many  things  and  of  nothing ;  a  confused 


36  FIAMMETTA. 

stream  of  reminiscences,  feelings,  hopes,  sor 
rows,  swept  through  his  mind,  without  or 
der  or  consequence.  He  was  weary  with 
the  heat  and  with  the  journey,  and  now  and 
then  drowsed  away  into  a  half  sleep,  from 
which  he  was  constantly  aroused  by  some 
sharp  jerk  of  the  bagasino. 

At  last,  after  a  three  hours'  pull  up  the 
hills,  and  when  he  had  for  the  twentieth 
time  fallen  into  a  drowse,  he  was  startled 
by  the  sharp  crack  of  Pasquale's  whip,  rat 
tling  out  on  the  air  with  a  volley  right  and 
left  like  pistol-shots,  and  waking  he  looked 
about  him. 

"  Ah !  "  he  cried  ;  "  here  we  are  at  last." 
"  Yes,   Signer   Conte,  here  we  are ;  and 
we  have  done  it  in  good  time,  too." 

So  saying,  he  poured  forth  another  volley 
of  cracks,  and  whistled  shrilly.  His  whistle 
was  returned,  and  a  light  gleamed  in  the 
villa  toward  which  they  were  approaching 
through  an  avenue  of  cypresses. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  bcKjasino  stopped 
before  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  the 
fattore,  Pietro,  and  his  wife,  who  held  out 
a  lantern  to  light  them,  and  greeted  them 
with  loud  cries  of  welcome.  "  Benvenuto  I 
benvenuto  I  Signor  Conte." 


FIAMMETTA.  87 

"  Thank  you  ;  thank  you.  You  are  both 
well,  I  hope.  Ah  !  I  see  you  are ;  and  you 
received  my  letter.'' 

"  Yes,  signor  ;  we  are  all  well.  Thanks 
to  the  Madonna,  all  well ;  and  we  received 
your  letter,  and  we  have  prepared  the  rooms 
you  wished  —  the  old  rooms,  you  know,  to 
the  west  that  you  wished  to  occupy ;  and  we 
have  arranged  a  supper  for  you  as  well  as 
we  could,  at  such  a  short  notice ;  for  I  half 
suppose  you  will  have  a  good  appetite  after 
your  long  journey ;  and  there  is  a  good  flask 
of  wine,  you  may  exist  on  that  at  least,  if 
the  rest  does  not  suit  you ;  and  there  is  a 
frittata  of  eggs,  and  a  bistecca  of  vitella, 
and  some  potatoes,  and  some  cheese ;  and 
I  am  afraid  that  is  all." 

"  Thanks,  quite  enough,  and  to  spare ; 
though  I  own  I  am  hungry.  So  this  is  the 
old  house  ;  just  the  same  as  it  was,  though 
I  see  you  have  turned  the  hall  into  a  hay 
loft  ;  but  it  smells  sweet." 

"  We  will  have  it  cleared  out  to-morrow, 
signor ;  only  we  had  not  time  to-day.  But 
truly,  truly,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  signor, 
again.  Benvenuto !  benvenuto !  Ah  yes, 
we  have  n  't  seen  you  since  the  count,  your 
father,  of  blessed  memory,  died.  Ah,  me ! 


38  F 1 AM M ETTA. 

Two  years  ago  ;  two  years  ago  ;  and  you  are 
looking  well  and  strong  ;  and  you  will  be 
glad  to  see  the  old  house  again  ;  and  I  and 
Maria  are  right  glad  too  to  see  you.  Eh, 
Maria?" 

"  Blessed  be  the  Madonna  and  all  the 
saints !  "that  we  are,"  said  Maria,  and  nod 
ded  and  curtsied  and  smiled. 

"And  now,  Maria,"  cried  the  oldfattore; 
"  via,  quick  into  the  kitchen  and  get  ready 
the  supper,  and  I  will  light  the  signor  up 
to  his  room.  He  will  want  to  wash  off  the 
dust,  I  suppose ;  and  I  will  take  up  this 
valise,  and  you,  Pasquale,  bear  a  hand  with 
the  other,  and  look  out,  signor,  for  the  step. 
Ah  !  you  remember  it,  I  see.  It  ?s  the  old 
room  to  the  west  that  you  wished.  Bravo ! 
bravo !  This  is  as  good  as  a  terno  at  the 
lottery.  Everybody  about  here  will  say  the 
same.  Eh,  Pasquale  ?  And  about  the  pony, 
Signor  Conte  ?  " 

"  Put  him  into  the  stable,  Pasquale,"  cried 
Marco  ;  "  and  give  him  a  good  feed,  for  he 
has  served  us  well." 

"  I  told  you,  sir,  he  was  a  pony  worth  his 
weight  in  gold.  You  won't  find  such  an 
other  pony  hereabouts." 

"Aye,  very  true,  very  true,"  interrupted 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  39 

Marco,  for  he  had  heard  enough  about  the 
pony's  value  ;  "  and  for  Pasquale  himself,  we 
must  give  him  a  room  for  the  night,  and  a 
good  feed  too.  He  must  be  our  guest  for 
to-night." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Pasquale  ;  "  I  shall  not 
object  to  that  for  a  few  hours.  The  pony 
must  have  a  rest,  and  I  can  lie  down  any 
where  ;  don't  trouble  yourself,  signor,  about 
me.  It  will  only  be  for  a  few  hours.  Be 
fore  daybreak  I  must  be  off  and  down  to 

N ,  for  I  have  an  engagement  there. 

Any  other  commands,  Signor  Conte  ?  " 

"  Nothing ;  thanks.  But  I  have  n't  paid 
you  yet." 

"  Oh,  no  matter  for  that ;  any  time  will 
do.  No,  no,  signor." 

"  Oh  yes,  yes.  No  time  is  so  good  as  the 
present.  And  there  it  is.  Is  that  right  ?  " 

"  Perfectly ;  but  it  was  not  necessary,  sig 
nor.  And  now,  if  you  have  no  other  com 
mands,  I  will  go  and  look  after  the  pony." 

"  And  Pietro  will  look  after  you.  So 
good-night,  and  a  good  sleep." 

"  The  same  again  to  you,  signor,  and 
thanks." 

And  Pasquale  left  them.  And  this  was 
Marco's  welcome  home.  There  was  a  heart- 


40  FIAMMETTA. 

iness  and  good -nature  in  it  that  warmed 
him  to  the  heart,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
acted  wisely  in  returning.  When  Pietro 
and  Pasquale  had  gone  out,  he  gazed  about 
the  room,  where  was  all  the  old  furniture  he 
had  known  as  a  boy,  and  then  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  swept  his  eye  over  the  land 
scape  and  the  garden  below,  that  once  was 
so  familiar,  and  then  drew  a  long  breath  and 
said  to  himself,  "  I  am  glad  that  I  came." 


CHAPTER  III. 

REFRESHED  by  a  long  night's  sleep,  he 
awoke  the  next  morning  in  good  spirits,  and 
went  out  before  breakfast  to  take  a  look 
about  the  place  and  see  if  there  were  any 
changes.  Pietro  offered  to  accompany  him, 
but  he  chose  to  go  alone.  We  will,  how 
ever,  go  with  him  unperceived,  though  we 
shall  not  see,  perhaps,  with  his  eyes. 

The  house  itself  was  a  rectangular  villa, 
three  stories  high,  built  some  three  centuries 
ago,  with  a  broad  platform  in  front,  in  the 
centre  of  which  was  an  old  stone  fountain, 
now  considerably  dilapidated  and  covered 
with  moss,  but  from  whose  pipes  still  issued 
a  weak  stream  of  water  that  filled  its  shell- 
like  basin  and  dropped. and  oozed  through 
many  a  crack  into  the  round  enclosure  below, 
whose  surface  was  paved  with  broad  green 
leaves,  under  which  a  family  of  frogs  had 
made  their  home,  and  creeping  out  over  the 
rim  chanted  at  nightfall  their  low  guttural 
chorus.  The  platform  was  bounded  by  a 


42  FIAMMETTA. 

wall,  with  stone  posts  at  intervals,  on  which 
still  stood  three  or  four  old  broken  and  rot 
ting  busts,  each  wanting  its  nose,  and  all  of 
them  with  broken  necks,  clamped  with  rusty 
braces.  But  ivy  had  hung  its  dark-green 
draperies  about  them  to  cover  their  deform 
ity,  and  the  wild  rose  and  honeysuckle  clam 
bered  over  them  now  and  filled  the  air  at 
twilight  with  fragrance.  Beyond  this  plat 
form  opened  a  magnificent  view  over  a  vast 
valley  below,  sprinkled  here  and  there  with 
villas  and  farmhouses  and  little  gray  villages, 
that  in  the  distance  looked  more  like  rocky 
outcrops  from  the  hillsides  and  eminences  to 
which  they  clung  than  habitations  built  by 
the  hands  of  man.  Through  the  lowest  plain 
a  sinuous  river  curved  and  gleamed  in  the 
sun,  like  a  silver  ribbon  dropped  carelessly 
upon  its  bosom.  The  whole  valley,  with  its 
varied  outlines  and  prominences,  viewed  from 
above  seemed  like  a  rolling  sea  of  waves 
that  had  been  suddenly  struck  into  silence 
by  some  tremendous  fiat,  and  now  stood 
calm  and  motionless  and  serene,  all  their 
agitations  over,  in  a  dream  of  delicate  mist. 
As  Marco  leaned  on  the  parapet  and  looked 
out  over  it,  bathed  in  the  fresh  morning 
light,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more 


F I  AM M ETTA.  43 

exquisite  panorama.  Here  and  there  faint 
blue  lines  of  smoke  rose  and  wavered  in  the 
air  and  melted  away  in  the  light  from  some 
house  or  village.  From  the  convent  perched 
upon  a  breezy  cliff  rang  the  far  sound  of 
bells.  The  voices  of  peasants,  calling  to 
each  other  or  singing  wild  snatches  of  song, 
came  up  softened  by  distance.  Nightingales 
were  pouring  forth  their  love  trills.  Chaf 
finches  were  warbling  their  fainter  strains. 
The  cuckoo  was  reiterating  his  call  that 
summer  was  come,  and  a  myriad  of  birds 
were  chanting  their  matin  songs. 

On  either  side  of  the  house  slopes  of  for 
est  rose,  stretching  up  the  mountain  sides  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  here  clothed  with 
dark-haired  firs,  there  green  with  beeches,  or 
whitened  with  chestnuts,  that  were  now  cov 
ered  with  drooping  clusters  of  pale,  juicy 
blossoms;  and  behind  rose  a  bare  hill, 
shaven  of  all  its  taller  growth  of  trees,  but 
robed  by  broad  glowing  masses  of  golden 
gorse,  that  were  now  in  the  full  splendor 
of  their  bloom,  and  glorified  its  nakedness. 
Through  these  mountains  were  cloven  here 
and  there  precipitous  defiles,  where  dark 
shadows  made  their  lair,  while  steep  cliffs 
and  escarpments  of  rock,  rising  almost  per- 


44  FIAMME  TTA. 

pendicularly,  frowned  over  them.  The  whole 
scenery  on  this  side  was  wild  and  serious 
and  solitary,  untrained  by  the  hand  of  man, 
and  ruled  in  its  natural  grandeur,  where  one 
might  range  for  days  beyond  the  reach  of 
civilization,  so  called,  among  the  wild  haunts 
of  nature  ;  where  the  storms  of  winter  might 
rage  at  their  will,  and  tear  the  forests  and 
uproot  the  oaks  of  a  century,  and  crowd  the 
swollen  foaming  torrents  over  the  boulders 
till  they  roar,  then  return  to  the  lamenting 
trees  and  heap  the  hollows  with  snow,  and 
drench  the  mountains  with  hail  and  lashing 
rain  ;  or  where  peaceful  summer  might  sleep 
and  dream  in  soft  shadows,  lulled  by  purling 
brooks,  the  whisper  of  infinite  leaves,  the 
warble  of  happy  birds,  and  the  murmurous 
hum  of  swarms  of  innumerable  insects. 

The  house  itself  was,  as  I  have  said,  rec 
tangular  in  shape.  A  great  portone  in  the 
centre  led  at  once  into  a  large  square  hall 
paved  with  stone,  occupying  the  entire  depth 
of  the  house,  and  opening  behind  into  a  large 
balcony.  Out  of  this  on  one  side  were  the 
offices  and  storerooms,  and  on  the  other  was 
a  broad  staircase  leading  to  the  first  floor, 
where  again  was  a  great  central  hall  of  the 
full  height  of  the  house,  out  of  which  opened 


FIAMMETTA.  45 

all  the  bedrooms  and  the  dining-room. 
The  rooms  occupied  by  Marco  were  in  one 
corner,  and  the  windows  on  either  side  were 
surrounded  by  a  balcony  which  embraced 
them  all.  This  had  been  his  room  as  a  boy, 
and  here  he  had  wished  to  return. 

The  house,  which  had  originally  been 
handsome,  was  now  in  very  bad  repair.  Lit 
tle  by  little  the  greater  part  of  the  antique 
furniture  had  been  sold  by  the  old  count  to 
raise  money ;  and  only  here  and  there  re 
mained  a  large  carven  wardrobe,  a  worm- 
eaten  chest,  a  range  of  old  benches  with 
backs,  a  few  ancient  chairs,  and  a  consider 
able  number  of  old  pictures.  All  the  valu 
able  pictures  had  long  since  gone,  and  what 
remained  were  of  little  value  as  works  of  art, 
though  they  still  served  to  garnish  the  walls. 
Among  them  were  stiff  portraits  of  the 
family,  pictures  of  old  dried-up  saints,  a  few 
Holy  Families,  some  Santa  Susannas,  and 
one  or  two  large  battle-pieces.  Beside  these 
were  a  considerable  number  of  old  prints, 
framed  and  hung  in  various  rooms,  some  of 
them  interesting,  many  of  them  curious,  rep 
resenting  all  sorts  of  subjects,  from  carica 
tures  of  the  fashions  of  previous  centuries  in 
odd  costumes  to  proof  impressions  of  Maro 


46  FIAMMETTA. 

Antonio.  But  throughout  there  was  a  look 
of  dilapidation.  The  wainscotings  were 
soiled  and  stained,  the  ceilings  defaced,  the 
floors  without  a  vestige  of  a  carpet,  and  no 
repairs  had  evidently  been  made  for  years, 
save  those  which  were  absolutely  necessary. 

The  stables,  which  were  large,  lay  behind 
the  house,  but  they  harbored  now  only  a 
donkey  and  a  cow ;  and  in  the  square  court 
yard  were  a  score  or  two  of  hens,  who  were 
running  and  cackling  about,  under  the  su 
pervision  of  two  or  three  masterful  cocks, 
the  sultans  of  the  yard,  with  their  coral 
crests  and  wattles,  brilliant  necks  and  wav 
ing  tails,  who  strutted  proudly  and  daintily 
about,  picking  their  steps  and  lording  it  over 
their  meek  harems  with  a  magnificent  supe 
riority.  A  few  extremely  foolish  turkeys 
bridled  up  as  Marco  entered  the  court,  and 
swelled  their  wattles  and  thrust  out  their 
necks  and  gabbled  at  him  as  if  they  had  some 
thing  of  importance  to  say,  whereas,  in  point 
of  fact,  their  gabbling  was  quite  as  senseless 
as  the  talk  of  the  most  fashionable  saloons. 

After  making  a  general  survey  of  the 
whole  place,  Marco  returned,  took  his  break 
fast,  and  inquired  all  the  news  of  the  place 
and  the  people  about,  and  Pietro  and  Maria 


F I  AM M ETTA.  47 

answering  by  turns,  and  sometimes  both  to 
gether,  told  him  that  —  "  Oliva  was  still 
quite  well  and  strong,  though  Julia,  her  lit 
tle  girl  —  signor,  you  remember  Julia  —  was 
cosi  cosi  only,  and  they  had  sent  her  down 
to  the  sea  for  baths.  And  Narcisso,  si  sig 
nor,  Narcisso  Stam,  bene,  and  was  going  to 
marry  Marietta,  the  daughter  of  Nina  of  the 
Padre  Nuoro;  and  the  old  priest  was  well 
too,  God  be  praised  !  —  a  good  man,  always 
ready  to  do  what  he  could  for  his  flock. 
And  poor  old  Fidele,  he  died  during  the 
winter  ;  and  it  was  true,  as  Padre  Anselmo 
said,  that  he  was  spared  any  more  suffering, 
for  he  did  suffer,  you  know,  very  much,  poor 
man,  with  a  toad  in  his  stomach,  they  say. 
But  who  can  tell.  Ser  Mimo,  our  doctor, 
said  that  was  all  nonsense.  It  was  only 
brown  kitties  in  his  throat.  But  I  don't  see 
that  that  was  much  better.  However, 
whether  it  was  a  toad  or  brown  kitties,  he 
died,  and  peace  be  with  him.  And  the  win 
ter  had  been  hard,  very  hard,  for  all  the 
poor  people.  But  what  will  you  ?  Winter 
is  always  hard  upon  the  poor.  Now  they 
are  doing  well,  with  the  strawberries  and 
mushrooms  and  raspberries  in  the  forests. 
Mushrooms  !  I  think  so,  by  thousands,  sig- 


48  F1AMMETTA. 

nor.  Oh  yes  ;  now  is  the  time  for  them,  as 
many  as  you  like  —  the  woods  are  full  of 
them.  Aclone  was  here  only  yesterday  with 
two  great  baskets  full,  which  he  was  taking 
down  to  Revi  for  sale.  The  Lord  bless  us ! 
why  did  we  not  take  some  for  you?  Ah, 
what  a  pity !  But  then  we  did  n't  know  you 
were  coming,  that 's  true.  Your  letter  only 
got  here  after  he  had  gone.  The  garden! 
Oh  yes,  signor  ;  it 's  a  picture  to  see.  The 
peas  are  all  up  well,  and  as  many  as  you 
want ;  and  the  beans  too  —  great  big  ceccini 
beans,  that  you  like  so  much.  Oh  yes ;  I 
remember  how  you  used  to  like  them,  you 
and  the  count  of  blessed  memory,  your  fa 
ther,  and  that  other  signor  that  came  here 
now  and  then,  and  said,  '  Come,  Marietta, 
you  have  n't  forgotten  the  beans,  have  you  ? ' 
'  No,  Signor  Principe,'  I  said,  l  not  I.'  And 
then  how  merry  all  used  to  be.  Well,  well, 
no  one  comes  now,  pazienza  ;  but,  as  I  was 
saying,  the  beans  are  ripening  now,  and  finer 
beans  you  will  not  find  ;  and  the  tomatoes 
are  coming  on  well.  Of  course  they  're  not 
ripe  yet.  I  know  you  like  them  too  ;  and 
the  beets  and  the  carrots,  and  the  zucche  and 
the  potatoes.  Oh,  you  won't  starve  here  for 
want  of  vegetables  !  Beppa  ?  Oh  yes  ;  she 


FIAMMETTA.  49 

is  well.  She  was  asking  the  other  day 
about  you,  signer,  and  when  you  were  com 
ing.  And  I  had  to  say,  4  Dio  mio !  who 
knows  ?  '  She  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  As 
soon  as  they  know  you  are  here,  they  will 
all  be  up  to  see  you.  We  can't  do  what 
they  can  do  in  Rome  for  you  ;  but,  pazienza, 
we  will  try  and  do  all  we  can.  Too  good, 
too  good,  in  you,  signer,  to  say  so.  We  are 
only  poor  people,  and  cannot  do  much ; 
but  as  Padre  Anselmo  says,  'A  plate  of 
beans  from  a  friend  is  better  than  a  fat  ox 
of  an  enemy,'  with  good  will,  you  know,  sig- 
nor ;  and  that  at  least  we  have.  And  speak 
ing  of  oxen,  we  shall  have  to  have  a  couple 
of  oxen,  I  am  afraid,  signer.  We  sold  the 
others  well  at  the  fair  last  autumn ;  but  we 
cannot  get  along  without  them.  And  next 
week  there  is  the  fair  up  at  Bolena.  Well, 
well ;  we  will  talk  about  that  later  when  you 
have  looked  about.  I  know  where  there  is 
a  good  pair.  Leave  that  to  me,  signor.  A 
man  will  have  to  get  up  early  in  the  morn 
ing  to  deceive  me  about  an  ox.  But  we  are 
chattering  here  and  making  a  noise,  when 
we  ought  to  be  at  work.  Come,  Maria, 
be  off,  the  Signor  Conte  has  heard  enough 
for  the  present ;  and  I,  too,  must  be  off.  I 
4 


50  FIAMMETTA. 

suppose  you,  signor,  will  like  to  look  over 
the  place,  at  your  convenience  I  mean,  at 
your  convenience.  You  won't  like  to  be 
troubled  to-day  with  business,  and  all 's  go 
ing  on  right.  And  have  you  any  com 
mands  now?  Ah,  none.  Le  riverisa,  sig- 
nor."  And  off  the  worthy  pair  went. 

This  was  somewhat  different  from  Rome, 
and  Marco  felt  that  he  was  in  another  world. 
He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  finished  his 
breakfast,  and  then  wandered  through  the 
house  and  into  all  the  rooms,  so  full  of 
reminiscences,  and  passed  in  review  all  the 
old  pictures  and  prints,  and  peered  into 
every  odd  closet  and  nook,  and  mounted 
into  the  attic  and  gazed  curiously  at  its  old 
brown  rafters,  and  smelled  again  the  dusty 
odor  that  brought  him  back  so  vividly  all 
the  old  days  of  youth.  There  is  nothing 
like  odors  to  recall  the  past,  and  verify  in 
our  minds  the  life  that  is  gone,  —  one  whiff 
of  a  flower  will  turn  the  key  that  opens  the 
door  to  a  thousand  thronging  memories. 
And  wandering  through  these  rooms,  almost 
at  moments  the  years  fell  off  from  him,  and 
he  felt  a  boy  again,  —  he  heard  the  voice 
of  his  father  calling  him  from  below,  the 
shout  of  his  playmates  hiding  in  corners  of 


F I  AM M ETTA.  51 

the  attic.  He  stumbled  over  an  old  wooden 
horse,  with  broken  legs  and  battered  head, 
that  once  was  the  pride  of  his  boyhood, 
and  that  lay  in  a  dim  corner  of  the  attic, 
thrown  away,  who  knows,-  how  many  a  year 
ago,  and  he  took  it  up  and  gazed  earnestly 
at  it,  and  smiled,  and  moisture  came  into 
his  eyes.  Then  he  sighed  and  laid  it  down 
again  carefully,  and  said  to  himself,  — 
"Poor  Carlino,  where  is  he  now?  and  where 
are  the  days  when  we  played  together,  care 
less  of  the  future,  pleased  with  the  present, 
never  foreseeing  nor  caring  to  foresee.  Poor 
Carlino,  where  are  you  now  ?  Gone  where 
no  voice  of  mine  can  reach  you,  and  where 
no  voice  of  yours  will  ever  reach  me." 

Then  he  left  the  attic  and  went  down  to 
his  room,  and  the  passing  memory  fled  like 
a  dream.  Next  to  this  room  was  another 
opening  out  from  it,  in  which  the  library 
was  kept.  He  opened  the  windows,  to  drive 
away  the  musty  smell  and  let  the  sunshine 
in,  and  gave  a  glance  over  the  books.  They 
were  mostly  old,  printed  centuries  ago,  and 
bound  in  limp  vellum  ;  books  that  none  but 
a  student  ever  opens,  and  which  have  no 
current  breath  of  modern  life  in  them  —  ec 
clesiastical  histories  and  lives  of  the  saints, 


52  FIAMMETTA. 

and  sermons  and  tracts  and  windy  essays, 
and  geography,  and  the  works  of  the  fathers 
and  the  priests.  Among  them,  however, 
were  the  Latin  poets  and  writers,  the  stand 
ard  works  of  Italian  literature  of  a  later 
date,  a  few  French  books  and  romances, 
and,  of  course,  the  Italian  poets  and  novel 
ists  of  a  previous  age.  "  Some  day  I  must 
look  carefully  over  these,"  he  thought. 
"  Possibly  there  may  be  some  of  real  inter 
est  and  value ;  at  all  events,  the  poets  are 
here,  and  they  live  forever,  and  here  I  shall 
find  quiet  friends,  ready  to  be  taken  up  and 
put  down  at  my  will,  never  presuming,  and 
never  forcing  themselves  upon  me,  at  whom 
I  can  laugh  without  hurting  their  feelings, 
whom  I  can  criticise  without  any  self-justifi 
cation  or  argument  on  their  parts,  whom  I 
can  even  abuse  without  rousing  their  anger." 
After  lingering  here  for  an  hour  he  went 
out;  and  the  rest  of  his  day  was  spent  in 
going  over  the  place,  looking  at  the  fields 
that  were  planted,  examining  all  the  build 
ings,  wandering  about  the  woods,  and  ex 
changing  a  word  or  two  now  and  then  with 
some  of  the  peasants  whom  he  met.  The 
day  thus  pleasantly  slipped  away,  and  he 
was  glad  at  night  to  go  to  bed  early  and  take 
a  long  refreshing  sleep. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

UNEVENTFULLY  the  days  went  by.  The 
silence,  the  solitude  charmed  him.  He  joyed 
in  the  delicious  breath  of  the  summer,  that, 
stealing  perfume  from  the  myriad  wild  flow 
ers  profusely  blooming  everywhere,  fanned 
his  brow  and  cheek,  and  awakened  many  a 
poetic  thought,  or  feeling  at  least,  in  his 
mind.  After  the  hot,  stifling  air  of  the  city, 
and  its  noisy  vanities,  the  fresh  unbreathed 
wind  of  the  mountains  filled  him  with 
strength  and  purpose  and  hope.  Work  was 
distasteful  to  him.  He  desired  to  be  lazy, 
aimless,  solitary,  to  be  at  friends  with  Na 
ture,  not  to  question  or  dispute  with  her,  but 
to  lay  out  his  heart  to  her  influence,  and  let 
her  say  and  do  what  she  would.  He  wished 
not  to  torment  her,  but  to  open  his  heart  to 
her,  and  leave  her  free  to  sow  her  wandering 
seeds  and  breathe  her  influence  over  him, 
without  labor  or  conscious  effort  on  his  part, 
just  as  the  broad  fields  that  lie  open  to  the 
sunshine,  and  without  effort  let  the  sun  and 


54  F I  AMU  ETTA. 

the  air  grow  their  harvest  in  her  bosom. 
He  was  tired  of  his  studies,  tired  of  cate 
chising  Nature,  and  wilfully  plucking  her 
fruits,  and  persistingly  demanding  her  fa 
vors,  and  thus  tormenting  her  and  himself. 
"  She  will  give  me  what  she  chooses  now," 
he  said  ;  "  I  will  not  be  a  beggar,  nor  impor 
tune  her  more.  Now  for  long  fallow  days 
of  idleness.  I  will  turn  Art  out  of  doors, 
and  let  her  stray,  and  wander  at  her  own 
free  will,  nor  longer  chain  and  harness  her 
to  work.  And  for  myself,  Pegasus  has  been 
too  long  under  the  yoke.  I  feel  my  imag 
ination  narrowing.  Let  him  free  his  wings 
and  soar  away  wherever  his  impulse  guides 
him." 

So  Marco  took  no  sketch-book  with  him 
to  hunt  down  Nature  and  despoil  her.  lie 
said,  "  When  the  time  comes,  I  will  work  ; 
but  out  of  this  aimless  communion  something 
at  last,  not  wilfully  sought  for,  may  come. 
At  all  events,  I  will  give  myself  a  chance." 

Day  after  day  he  roamed  up  and  down 
the  forests  and  the  valleys,  sometimes  climb 
ing  some  stony  bridle-path  that  more  resem 
bled  the  rocky  bed  carved  out  by  a  swollen 
torrent  than  a  road.  Sometimes  lying  for 
hours  at  length  under  the  shade  of  the  beech- 


F1AMMETTA.  55 

trees,  gazing  at  their  sunny  wavering  roof 
of  light  and  dark  green  leaves,  that  seemed 
paved  against  the  blue  sky  beyond.  Some- 
^imes  wandering  for  miles  through  the 
cathedral  aisles  of  tall  firs,  whose  serried 
columns  reared  high  up  above  his  head,  and 
swayed  and  whispered  with  a  sea-like  mur 
mur  as  the  wind  sifted  through  them,  and 
then  when  wearied  flinging  himself  on  their 
carpet  of  brown  needles  to  rest.  Sometimes 
seeking  for  mushrooms,  that  thrust  their 
brown  heads  out  of  the  soil ;  or  plucking 
some  wild  flower,  and  pondering  its  curiously 
exquisite  forms  ;  or  watching  the  busy  trains 
of  ants,  endlessly  at  work  on  who  knows 
what ;  or  the  idle  butterflies  drifting  here 
and  there  ;  or  the  hot  and  restless  bees,  that 
bustle  from  flower  to  flower  to  rifle  them  of 
their  sweetness,  weighing  them  down  and 
plunging  into  them  their  slender  trunks ;  or 
the  swarms  of  unknown  winged  insects,  that 
circled  around  and  around  and  gleamed  in 
the  sunshine. 

At  times,  as  he  lay  dreaming,  the  voices 
of  peasants  came  to  him  through  the  far 
aisles  of  the  forest,  and  then  passed  by,  some 
with  a  great  load  of  fagots  on  their  heads, 
some  with  a  couple  of  baskets  poised  on  a 


56  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

stick  over  their  shoulders,  old  and  young, 
maidens  and  men  and  old  women,  all  bear 
ing  the  spoils  of  the  forest  to  the  neigh 
boring  villages.  Pausing,  they  saluted  him 
with  a  greeting  now  and  then,  asked  him  for 
a  xous,  and  once  in  a  while  stopped  and 
talked  with  him  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  moved  on.  He  watched  them  as  they 
walked  erectly  through  the  trees,  picturesque 
in  their  colored  cotton  gowns,  each  of  the 
women  with  a  red  figured  handkerchief 
bound  about  her  head,  and  all  busy  —  all  in 
tent  on  something. 

"Nothing  seems  idle  here,"  he  thought, 
"  save  the  butterflies.  Even  that  great  hawk 
that  poises  far  up  in  the  blue,  and  sweeps 
majestically  and  easily  in  broad  circles  and 
curves,  though  he  seems  scarcely  to  move  his 
wings,  and  to  hover  there  in  pure  enjoy 
ment,  is  still  at  work  seeking  for  his  prey. 
All  are  busy,  all  preying  on  something  or 
anxious  for  something.  There  seems  to  be 
no  such  thing  as  entire  rest  and  peace  in  all 
this  swarming  life.  The  very  wind  is  busy, 
the  clouds  are  travelling  somewhere  ;  and  in 
this  very  rest  of  mine  there  is  no  rest,  for 
my  thoughts  are  going  without  my  will  and 
beyond  my  will,  in  a  sort  of  aimless  course. 


FIAMMETTA.  57 

"  Rest,  I  suppose,  would  be  death.  There 
is  nothing  living  that  is  at  rest." 

In  dreamy  thoughts  like  these,  at  times  he 
would  fall  asleep  and  doze  for  a  time ;  and 
then  rousing,  would  plunge  deeper  into  the 
forest,  or  climb  some  precipitous  height,  and 
hot  and  panting  would  take  off  his  hat  and 
feel  the  fresh  breeze  bathe  his  forehead,  and 
draw  in  large  draughts  of  invigorating  air, 
and  stretch  out  his  arms,  and  feel  a  whole 
some  delight  in  being  alone  and  out  of  the 
world. 

Then  he  would  return  to  the  house,  wan 
der  in  the  garden  and  watch  the  peas  and 
beans  as  they  grew  day  by  day,  twining  up 
their  trellis  of  frascM,  and  blossoming  and 
swelling  their  pods  ;  or  lie  upon  the  balus 
trade  of  the  wall,  and  idly  pick  from  the 
corners  the  weeds  that  grew  beneath  his 
hand  ;  or  sit  on  the  old  stone  trough  in  the 
courtyard,  and  watch  the  cocks  and  hens, 
and  scatter  crumbs  and  grain  to  them  to  eat 
as  they  gathered  about  him  ;  or  hunt  for 
their  eggs  in  the  hay;  or  pat  the  donkey, 
and  talk  to  him  and  flatter  him,  —  idling 
about,  now  here,  now  there,  with  no  fixed 
purpose,  simply  living  and  drinking  in  the 
air,  and  tormenting  his  spirit  with  no  agita 
tion  of  work. 


58  FIAMMETTA. 

And  so  went  on  some  ten  days,  and  then 
this  utter  idleness  began  somewhat  to  weary 
him.  His  spirit,  sick  at  first,  had  needed 
it ;  but  as  the  fresh  air  gave  him  new  life, 
the  sluggish  current  of  his  thoughts  began 
to  stir  in  him,  and  now  and  then  when  he 
went  out  he  carried  his  fishing-rod  and  line, 
and  amused  himself  by  catching  some  of  the 
trout  that  abounded  in  the  torrent  that 
poured  down  the  clefts  of  the  mountains  ;  or 
took  some  volume  from  the  library  in  his 
pocket,  and  read  it  as  he  lay  under  the 
shade  ;  or  dotted  down  verses  of  his  own, 
when  some  casual  expression  in  one  of  the 
poets  he  was  reading  set  fire  to  his  own 
thoughts.  Gradually,  too,  art  began  to  re- 
assume  its  rights  and  insist  upon  its  claim, 
and  would  not  longer  be  dismissed.  Many  a 
happy  accident  of  light  and  shade  and  form 
and  color  met  him  everywhere,  and  seemed  to 
cry  out  to  him,  and  beseech  him  so  strenu 
ously  that  he  could  not  resist  their  persua 
sion,  and  even  against  his  will  he  found  him 
self  forced  to  yield  and  to  sketch  them.  Old 
habits  came  back,  and  he  began  to  forecast 
many  a  picture  to  be  worked  out  on  canvas. 

Returning  home  towards  twilight  from 
one  of  these  excursions  into  the  woods,  he 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  59 

heard  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall.  One 
of  these  voices  was  that  of  old  Maria ;  the 
other  was  evidently  that  of  some  young  girl, 
clear,  penetrating,  and  of  a  singularly  sweet 
vibration.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  won 
dering  who  it  could  be.  It  was  evidently 
not  that  of  a  peasant,  so  he  thought  at  least, 
nor  of  any  one  whom  he  knew.  His  curios 
ity  was  roused.  Suddenly  the  girl  laughed 
a  low  laugh,  and  said :  "  Well,  Sera  Maria, 
night  is  coming  on  and  I  must  go.  Addio^ 
then,  and  the  strawberries  you  will  give  to 
the  Signor  Conte  from  the  Nonna,  who 
wishes  him  all  happiness,  and  hopes  some 
day  to  see  him,  as  soon  as  she  is  rid  of  her 
rheumatism.  Poverina,  she  is  not  able  to 
take  such  a  walk  now,  or  she  would  have 
come  before.  Addio." 

Both  came  to  the  door  together,  and  Maria 
then  saw  Marco.  "  Ah !  here  is  the  padrone 
now,"  she  cried.  "  This  is  Fiammetta,  Sig 
nor  Conte,  the  granddaughter  of  Antonio 
and  Gigia  of  the  Casetta.  She  has  just 
come  to  bring  you  some  strawberries  from 
the  Nonna.  You  remember  her,  do  you 
not?" 

"  Fiammetta  !  "  said  Marco.  "  This  can 
not  be  little  Fiammetta.  How  she  has 
grown  and  changed !  " 


60  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  Ah  !  signer,"  cried  Maria,  "  the  years 
go  by ;  we  all  change,  and  some  of  us  not 
for  the  better.  Pazienza  ;  but  this  is  Fiam- 
metta.  You  remember  the  Signor  Conte, 
Fiammetta?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember  him,"  said  Fiam 
metta,  simply. 

"  How  tall  you  have  grown !  "  said  Marco, 
as  he  looked  at  her  steadily.  "  Whatever 
Maria  may  say,  you  have  not  changed  for 
the  worse." 

The  girl  smiled,  and  then  a  sudden  rush 
of  blood  came  into  her  face ;  but  she  did 
not  cast  her  eyes  down  or  look  away.  On 
the  contrary,  she  gazed  steadily  at  Marco, 
and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  silence  as 
they  stood  looking  intently  at  each  other. 
Then  Marco  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her 
and  she  to  him,  and  they  shook  hands. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  said, 
"  though  I  should  never  have  recognized 
you ;  you  have  so  changed  since  I  last  saw 
you.  You  were  then  a  little  child." 

"  Grazie,  signor,"  she  answered.  "  Yes  ; 
I  was  a  child  then." 

"  And  you  are  still  at  the  Casetta  with 
your  grandmother." 

"  Yes,  signor." 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  61 

"  That  is  some  five  miles  away  from  here." 

"  Yes,  signor  ;  I  believe  so." 

"  Please  thank  your  Nonna  for  the  straw 
berries.  It  was  very  kind  of  her  to  send 
them  to  me,  and  tell  her  I  hope  she  will 
soon  be  well  of  her  rheumatism  ;  and  —  and 
—  tell  her  I  will  come  and  see  her  soon." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me,  signor." 

"  You  will  have  a  long  walk,  and  it  is  get 
ting  late." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me,"  she  answered,  and 
smiled. 

"  Oh,  Fiammetta  does  not  care  for  five 
miles  more  than  I  do  for  going  out  to  the 
garden,"  exclaimed  Maria.  "  What  are  five 
miles  to  a  lass  like  that  ?  nothing,  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing." 

"  But,"  said  Marco,  "  the  path  is  wild 
and  lonely;  and  are  you  not  afraid  to  go 
alone  ?  " 

"  Afraid !  "  she  cried,  "  of  what  ?  I  am 
afraid  of  nothing." 

"  No ;  that  she  is  not,"  cried  Maria. 
"  Are  you,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

She  laughed,  and  drew  herself  up  ;  and  a 
gleam  flashed  out  of  her  eyes,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"  You  must  keep  her  here  to-night,  Maria," 


62  F1AMMETTA. 

said  Marco.  "  I  do  not  like  to  let  her  go 
alone  in  the  dark  over  the  mountains.  Give 
her  a  bed  here,  and  she  will  return  in  the 
morning." 

"Certainly,  signor,"  said  Maria.  "You 
had  better  stay  perhaps,  Fiammetta.  We 
can  put  you  up  and  make  you  comfortable." 

"  Thank  you,  Signor  Conte,"  she  an 
swered.  "  You  are  very  good,  but  I  cannot 
stay.  Nonna  will  expect  me.  She  will 
worry  about  me  if  I  do  not  return,  and  I 
am  not  afraid.  No  one  would  dare  to  touch 
me.  Let  them  try  it  if  they  like,"  and  she 
laughed.  "  None  the  less,  a  thousand  thanks 
to  you,  and  a  rivederla,  Signor  Conte ;  and 
addio,  Maria." 

So  saying,  she  walked  away.  Marco 
watched  her  until  her  figure  was  lost  in  the 
trees,  and  then  turning  away  said :  "  What 
a  beautiful  girl !  " 

And  so  in  truth  she  was.  She  was  not 
only  beautiful,  but  of  a  singular  character 
of  beauty,  difficult  to  describe.  Scarcely 
above  the  middle  height,  but  so  slender  that 
she  looked  even  taller  than  she  was  ;  pliant 
of  figure,  delicate  in  the  waist,  with  full 
rounded  bosom  and  arms,  and  small  hands 
and  feet,  and  in  her  motions  quick,  agile, 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  63 

buoyant.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  dark, 
and  lay  couched  under  low  square  brows, 
with  a  clear  light  in  them,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  shyness  and  yet  directness  and  fear 
lessness,  like  what  one  sees  at  times  in  the 
eyes  of  some  wild  free  animal,  ready  to 
brave  attack  or  to  yield  to  affection.  Her 
nose  was  straight ;  her  nostrils  thin ;  her 
mouth  and  chin  full;  her  complexion  dark 
and  bronzed  like  a  gypsy's;  and  when  she 
smiled  she  showed  a  range  of  milk-white 
teeth,  such  as  one  rarely  sees  except  in  the 
peasant  class.  Her  dark  face,  when  at  rest, 
was  serious  ;  but  when  she  smiled,  it  seemed 
as  when  a  sudden  burst  of  sunshine  comes 
out  of  a  thunder  -  cloud  and  illuminates  it 
with  splendor.  On  her  head  she  wore  a 
red -figured  handkerchief  tied  behind  in  a 
knot ;  and  from  beneath  this,  tendrils  of 
black  hair,  crisp  and  curling,  issued  and 
played  over  her  brow  and  cheeks.  Her 
dress  was  of  the  simplest  kind  —  made  of  a 
colored  print,  which  many  a  washing  had 
faded  into  a  delicate  tone  —  with  short 
sleeves  reaching  scarcely  to  the  elbow,  low 
in  the  neck,  fitting  closely  over  the  shoul 
ders,  and  loosely  girdled  in  at  the  waist. 
Her  figure  was  spoiled  by  no  corsets,  her 


64  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

under  dress  was  evidently  very  slight,  and 
the  graceful  contours  of  her  shoulders,  young 
bosom,  and  hips  showed  in  every  movement. 
She  was  in  figure  the  type  of  the  Youthful 
Huntress  of  the  silver  bow :  lithe,  long- 
limbed,  and  smoothly  rounded.  The  sun 
had  burnt  her  to  a  glowing  brown ;  her 
cheeks  were  like  a  ripe  summer  fruit,  and 
she  looked  as  if  she  had  only  been  a  com 
panion  of  the  winds  and  the  streams  and  the 
mountains,  and  had  never  known  the  pollut 
ing  civilization  of  a  city. 

Marco  watched  her  silently  as  she  disap 
peared  among  the  trees ;  once  only  she 
turned  at  the  last  point  at  which  she  was 
clearly  visible,  paused  a  moment,  looked 
back,  cried  with  a  clear  ringing  voice,  "  Ad- 
dio  ! ''  and  sprang  away  out  of  sight  like  a 
fawn. 

"  So  that  is  Fiammetta,"  said  Marco, 
turning  round  to  Maria.  "  What  a  wonder 
ful  beauty  she  is !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maria ;  "  she  is  a  beautiful 
girl,  and  a  strange  girl  too  ;  but  she  does 
not  seem  to  care  about  her  looks.  She  will 
have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  the  men  about 
here,  and  will  not  listen  to  them  nor  their 
compliments,  not  she  —  she  has  not  the 


F 'JAM M ETTA.  65 

least  idea  of  what  you  call  love.  Oh, 
blessed  Virgin,  no  !  Love  indeed !  —  let 
anybody  try  to  make  love  to  her,  and  she 
will  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  snap  her 
fingers  and  leap  away,  crying  out  to  her 
suitor,  '  Sciocco  !  '  —  fool.  She  's  a  curious 
creature,  indeed  —  fierce  as  a  snake,  when 
she  is  roused ;  and  as  she  told  you  herself, 
afraid  of  nobody  and  nothing.  Nobody  has 
ever  been  able  to  tame  her,  though  she  is 
gentle  enough,  too,  —  if  you  are  kind  to  her. 
But  her  old  Nonna  can't  get  much  work  out 
of  her,  though  she  is  now  well  sixteen  years 
old,  when  we  others  have  to  take  our  share 
of  burdens  and  work.  But  no,  signer,  no ; 
she  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  will 
take  care  of  the  hens  and  the  ducks,  and  the 
cow  and  the  donkey ;  but  she  will  not  work, 
as  the  others  do.  A  queer  girl,  indeed.' 
She  will  fling  her  arms  round  the  old  cow's 
neck  and  kiss  her  and  sing  to  her,  and  go  on 
sometimes  like  a  mad  girl ;  but  no  men  for 
her.  They  've  all  tried  it  again  and  again 
and  given  it  up.  Hour  after  hour,  day  after 
day,  she  is  gone  by  herself  in  the  woods,  and 
nobody  knows  what  she  does  there.  Eoams 
about  there  like  a  sort  of  wild  creature,  and 
gathers  strawberries  and  raspberries,  and  any 


66  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

wild  fruit  she  can  find.  But  she  won't  sell 
them  —  no,  siguor  ;  and  then  she  knows  how 
to  charm  the  birds.  Yes,  signor,  she  does  ; 
she  charms  the  birds.  How  she  does  it,  I 
don't  know  ;  but  somehow  or  other  she  does 
it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  she 
charms  the  birds  ?  "  asked  Marco. 

"  Oh,  she  just  charms  them,  with  a  sort 
of  incantation." 

44  How  does  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  She  just  sits  down,  signor  —  I  have  seen 
her  do  it  a  hundred  times  —  on  the  bank  of 
any  stream,  and  then  she  will  lift  up  her 
hands  slowly  and  wave  them  about  in  a  cir 
cle,  as  if  she  was  drawing  figures  in  the  air, 
and  then  she  will  begin  to  croon  a  little,  low 
song,  that  sounds  for  all  the  world,  signor, 
like  the  running  of  a  brook ;  and,  after  a 
time  —  one  after  another  —  the  birds  will 
begin  to  gather  in  the  air,  far  up,  and  then 
down,  down,  down  they  will  come  and  flutter 
and  flutter,  and  then  come  lower  down  and 
light  on  her  shoulders  and  lap ;  and  she  will 
go  on  singing  and  play  with  them  as  if  they 
belonged  to  her.  Oh!  you  may  smile,  sig 
nor  ;  what  I  tell  you  is  true  —  as  true  as 
Gospel.  I  have  seen  her  do  it  twenty  times. 


FIAMMETTA.  67 

I  do  not  know  what  her  secret  is,  nor  what 
she  says  ;  but,  signor,  the  birds  do,  and  they 
come  to  her  when  she  calls.  Blessed  Vir 
gin  !  it  is  strange ;  but  it  does  not  seem  to 
be  evil,  signor.  Some  say  she  is  a  magi 
cian,  but  I  don't  know.  They  go  to  her  for 
charms  against  diseases  —  all  kinds  of  dis 
eases  —  and  what  she  gives  them  I  don't 
know ;  but  they  say  she  can  drive  away  fe 
ver  and  all  that.  I  scarcely  believe  it,  but 
the  people  around  here  say  so." 

"  But  what  does  her  grandmother  say  to 
all  this?" 

"  Oh,  poverina,  she  is  used  to  her  by  this 
time,  and  well  she  may  be  ;  and  as  she  finds 
she  cannot  control  her,  she  lets  her  go  as 
she  will,  and  do  as  she  chooses.  And  after 
all  she  is  a  good  girl  —  I  must  say  that.  I 
never  knew  her  do  any  harm  to  any  one.  A 
kind,  good  girl,  ready  to  do  any  kindness  to 
any  one ;  and  she  never  talks  against  her 
neighbors,  and  hates  noise  and  quarrelling, 
and  runs  away  when  it  begins.  There  are 
people  enough,  signor,  that  like  to  talk 
against  everybody,  but  she  does  n't,  and  she 
is  good-tempered,  too,  if  she  is  treated  kindly. 
But  if  any  one  attempts  to  oppose  her  vio 
lently,  or  to  abuse  and  insult  her,  she  is  like 


68  FIAMMETTA. 

a  tiger-cat.  I  never  saw  eyes  flame  as  hers 
will ;  and  those  long,  slender  little  hands  of 
hers  I  should  not  like  to  have  round  my 
throat,  as  once  Adone  had,  when  he  insulted 
her  and  swore  at  her  (poor  fellow,  he  was 
half-drunk  when  he  did  it)  but  he  seized 
her  once  and  swore  she  should  kiss  him. 
But  he  counted  without  his  host,  signor. 
He  did  indeed.  One  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  hold  a  snake;  and  her  fingers  made 
marks  in  his  throat  that  he  wore  for  a  week. 
He  was  sorry  for  it,  and  so  was  she,  when 
he  said  he  was  sorry  and  begged  her  pardon. 
But  he  never  tried  that  game  again.'* 

"  No  ;  I  should  think  not.  She  does  not 
look  like  a  girl  that  would  stand  that  sort 
of  nonsense,"  said  Marco. 

"  Not  she ;  ah,  it 's  in  her  blood.  You 
see,  one  can  never  get  rid  of  one's  blood." 

"  In  her  blood  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"  Why,  signor,  you  know  her  history, 
don't  you?" 

"  No  ;  I  know  nothing  of  her  history,  save 
that  •!  remember  her  as  a  queer  little  girl 
that  I  once  used  to  see  years  ago." 

"Don't  you  remember  her  mother,  too? 
You  must  have  seen  her  when  you  were  a 
little  boy." 


FIAMMETTA.  69 

"  If  I  ever  knew  her,  she  has  gone  out  of 
my  memory." 

"  Ah,  but  she  has  n't  out  of  mine.  I  shall 
never  forget  her  and  her  doings." 

"  Tell  me  her  history." 

"  Well,  it  was  this,  signor.  She  was  the 
only  child  of  Antonio  and  Gigia  —  that  is, 
the  only  one  that  lived  and  grew  up  —  all 
the  others  died  young.  Only  Tonietta  lived, 
and  a  brave,  striking-looking  girl  she  was, 
not  so  good-looking  as  Fiammetta,  but,  via, 
something  of  that  kind.  Dark  and  tall  and 
proud  and  fierce,  and  had  high  notions  of 
herself,  and  always  hated  her  work;  and 
looked  down,  I  know  not  why,  upon  all  of 
us.  Well,  it  so  happened,  when  she  was 
about  eighteen  —  perhaps  nineteen  —  a  gen 
tleman  came  to  stay  here,  and  he  hired  that 
little  house  that  we  call  the  Fossetta.  You 
remember  it  —  over  the  hills  there  —  near 
the  Marchese  Alessandro.  He  was  not  an 
Italian,  but  he  came  from  a  far-away  coun 
try.  Stop  !  what  did  they  call  it  ?  —  up 
there  among  the  Polacchi,  or  Russii,  or 
Spagnoli,  or  Ainericani ;  but  it  was  not  there 
he  came  from  —  some  place  near  there  be 
ginning  with  a  B.  Beemy,  I  think  it  was." 

"  Bohemia,"  suggested  Marco. 


70  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

"  Ah,  yes !  that  was  it  —  Beemia.  He 
was  a  tall  handsome  man,  young,  maybe 
some  thirty  years  of  age,  more  or  less,  and 
he  wore  a  queer  kind  of  dress,  all  over  frogs 
and  buttons,  and  had  high  boots,  and  such  a 
costume  as  I  never  saw  before.  Well,  he 
came  here  to  spend  a  few  weeks  during  the 
summer,  to  roam  about  and  collect  flowers, 
and  to  shoot  partridges  and  quails,  and  I 
know  not  what.  Well,  while  he  was  shoot 
ing  in  the  woods  one  day,  he  met  Tonietta, 
and  he  stopped  and  talked  with  her  a  long 
while  ;  and  Tonietta  was  very  proud  of  this, 
and  again  and  again  he  met  her,  and  he  kept 
staying  on  at  the  Fossetta  long  into  the  au 
tumn  ;  and  every  day  he  used  to  saunter 
down  towards  Gigia's  house,  and  Tonietta 
would  make  some  excuse  to  go  with  him; 
and  at  last  Gigia  told  her  she  must  stay  at 
home,  and  that  no  good  would  come  of  such 
goings  on,  and  that  the  gentleman  was  only 
amusing  himself  with  her  and  making  a  tool 
of  her,  and  that  the  end  of  it  would  be  her 
ruin.  But  Tonietta  was  headstrong  and 
would  not  listen,  and  thought  she  knew  bet 
ter  than  all  the  world.  And  Antonio  had  a 
long  talk  with  her  one  day,  and  told  her 
that  if  he  caught  her  again  walking  with 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  71 

this  foreign  gentleman,  playing  the  civetta, 
he  would  lock  her  up  in  her  room  and  keep 
her  there  till  the  gentleman  went  away.  But 
the  next  day  the  same  thing  happened,  and 
Antonio  saw  them  through  the  trees,  and  he 
called  out  loudly  to  her,  and  she  fled  away 
home.  And  then,  blessed  Virgin,  what  a 
row  there  was !  There  was  the  devil's  own 
porridge  boiling  in  the  house.  Antonio 
called  her  a  fool,  and  worse  than  a  fool,  and 
abused  her  roundly,  and  said  she  would  dis 
grace  her  family,  if  she  had  n't  already,  and 
that  he  would  look  to  it  now.  So  he  locked 
her  up  in  her  room,  and  took  the  key  away, 
and  that,  he  thought,  would  end  the  matter. 
But  the  next  day  the  cage  was  empty  — 
Tonietta  was  gone  !  She  had  slipped  out  of 
the  window  early  in  the  morning  or  late  at 
night  —  nobody  knew  when  —  only  they 
knew  that  was  the  way  she  got  out,  because 
the  bed-clothes  were  knotted  together  into  a 

O 

sort  of  rope,  and  hanging  to  the  sill  of  the 
window  out  of  which  she  had  got.  Well,  of 

o 

course,  they  sought  for  her  everywhere,  but 
they  could  not  find  her,  and  could  get  no 
news  of  her ;  and  the  poor  people  were 
topsy-turvy  with  anxiety  and  fear.  At  last, 
after  about  a  week,  Pasquale  —  our  Pas- 


72  FIAMMETTA. 

quale,  you  know  —  came  and  made  it  all 
plain.  He  had  been  sent  for  by  the  gentle 
man  to  drive  him  down  to  N ,  and  when 

they  were  half-way  there  who  should  they 
see  but  Tonietta  sitting  on  a  stone  under  the 
trees,  just  off  the  road  at  the  four  corners 
where  the  cross  is,  and  out  got  the  stranger, 
and  off  he  went  with  her  into  the  wood,  tell 
ing  Pasquale  to  wait ;  and  Pasquale  did 
wait,  and  after  an  hour  or  so  they  came 
back  together  and  got  into  the  carriage,  and 
the  stranger  cried  to  him,  '  Now  be  off,  and 
let 's  see  if  your  horses  can  go ! '  And  go 
they  did,  for  Pasquale's  horses  know  how 
to  go,  and  soon  they  were  there;  and  the 
stranger  went  in  to  buy  the  tickets  for  the 
railroad,  and  left  Tonietta  there  alone.  And 
Pasquale  said  to  her,  4  Well,  my  beauty,' 
says  he,  4  do  you  expect  to  go  back  with  me  ? 
If  you  do,  you  are  mistaken,  for  I  have  got 
to  go  on  for  another  job,  and  shall  be  away 
for  several  days/  says  he  ;  4  so  you  '11  have  a 
long  walk  of  it,  Tonietta,  and  a  pretty  mess 
you  have  made ! '  But  she  said,  '  You  need 
not  trouble  yourself  —  it 's  all  right.'  4 1 
should  think  so,'  says  he;  and  says  she, 
*  You  attend  to  your  own  affairs  ; '  and  says 
he,  *  I  just  will ;  but  if  you  '11  take  a  friend's 


F1AMMETTA.  73 

advice,  you  will  go  back  as  you  came  and  at 
once,  though  it 's  none  of  my  business,'  says 
he.  4  Oh ! '  says  she,  4  Pasquale,'  says  she, 
'  never  you  mind,  nor  never  you  bother  your 
head  about  me  —  it 's  all  right.  But  you  can 
do  me  one  service,'  says  she.  '  And  what 's 
that  ? '  says  he.  '  And  it 's  this,'  says  she  ; 
'  tell  them  at  home  that  they  need  not  expect 
to  see  me  for  some  time  at  least.  I  am  go 
ing  to  be  married  to  this  gentleman,'  says 
she,  '  and  to  be  a  lady,'  says  she,  ;  and  to  go 
away,  far,  far  off,  and  live  in  a  great  palace,' 
says  she,  c  and  I  shall  sepd  them  money  and 
clothes  ;  and  give  them  my  love,  and  tell 
them  I  can't  write  anything  now,  and  tell 
them  I  was  sorry  not  to  say  good-by,'  says 
she ;  '  but  they  would  never  have  let  me  go 
if  I  had,'  says  she.  '  And  say  good-by  for 
me,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  you  know ;  and 
don't  forget  and  give  them  my  love,  and  tell 
them  not  to  trouble  about  me  —  it's  all 
right!' 

"  Well,  well ;  so  it  was,  and  so  Pasquale 
said ;  and  the  poor  old  people  were  grieved 
enough  at  first,  and  shook  their  heads,  and 
wondered  how  it  would  all  turn  out,  and 
hoped  for  the  best,  but  did  not  have  much 
faith  of  any  good  end.  And  so  the  months 


74  FIAMMETTA. 

went  on  and  on  ;  and  the  winter  came,  and 
the  spring,  and  the  summer,  and  the  autumn 
again,  and  no  Tonietta,  and  no  news  of  her 
nor  of  the  stranger ;  and  they  were  all  alone, 
and  the  evenings  were  dreary  to  them  as 
they  sat  and  looked  into  the  coals  and  sighed, 
and  sometimes  talked  about  her,  and  some 
times  sat  and  gazed  and  said  nothing  of  all 
that  was  working  in  their  minds. 

"  And  so,  as  I  said,  the  autumn  came  ; 
and  it  was  a  dreary  autumn  and  cold  —  very 
cold,  I  remember,  that  year  —  and  there 
came  on  a  great  st^rm  one  night  at  the  end 
of  November.  -  It  was  the  storm  that  blew 
down  that  great  chestnut,  some  two  hundred 
years  old,  they  said,  that  stood  over  at  the 
falls ;  and  the  rain  beat  against  the  panes 
and  lashed  them  furiously,  and  the  trees 
roared  and  groaned  as  in  torment ;  and  the 
blast  came  down  the  mountains  howling  like 
a  mad  spirit  of  the  devil,  and  shaking  the 
very  house.  And  Antonio  was  sitting  alone 
that  night  over  the  embers,  as  usual,  mend 
ing  a  hoe  —  for  Gigia  had  already  gone  to 
bed  —  when  he  thought  he  heard  a  cry  as  of 
a  human  voice.  He  listened  ;  but  it  was  not 
repeated,  and  he  thought  it  might  be  a  fiend, 
and  he  crossed  himself  and  said,  4  Domini , 


FIAMMETTA.  75 

patre  nostore,  ora  per  nobi  ! '  and  went  on 
mending  his  hoe.  And  after  a  minute  or 
two  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  this, 
he  thought  too,  was  imagination,  for  who 
could  be  there  at  such  a  time  ?  And  then 
the  knock  came  again,  and  a  cry  like  what 
he  heard  before,  and  he  said  to  himself,  he 
said,  '  Some  one  of  the  neighbors  must  be 
dying,'  and  he  got  up  and  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  and  the  wind  and  storm  burst 
in  and  blinded  him  at  first,  and  then  he  saw 
out  in  the  dark  the  dim  form  of  a  woman, 
with  a  shawl  drawn  over  her  head  and  cov 
ering  her  face,  and  he  cried  out,  '  Who  are 
you  ?  and  what  do  you  want  ?  '  for  he  could 
not  see  for  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  the 
dim  light  within  and  the  darkness  without  : 
and  there  was  no  answer.  '  Who  are  you  ?  ' 
cried  he  again ;  '  come  in  out  of  the  storm ! ' 
And  then  the  woman  cried  out,  '  Oh,  babbo, 
babbo  !  don't  you  know  me  ? '  Antonio's 
knees,  he  said,  shook  under  him  ;  he  thought 
it  must  be  a  ghost ;  he  could  not  speak ;  and 
then  the  figure  tottered  forward  to  him,  and 
cried  out  again, '  Oh,  babbo,  babbo  !  '  and  fell 
senseless  upon  the  door-sill.  And  he  bent 
down  and  lifted  her  shawl  from  her  face,  and 
cried  out  4  Tonietta ! '  and  then  he  rushed  to 


76  FIAMMETTA. 

the  stairs,  and  called  out,  4  Gigia !  Gigia ! 
quick!  come  down!  Here  is  Tonietta,  and 
dying  ! '  And  Gigia  hurried  down  all  like  a 
mad  person,  without  stopping  to  put  on  any 
thing  but  an  old  shawl ;  and  they  lifted  up 
Tonietta,  who  was  quite  gone  in  a  faint,  and 
laid  her  upon  a  settle  ;  and  when  they  took  off 
the  old  shawl  they  saw  that  she  clasped  to  her 
breast  a  bundle,  and  this  they  unwrapped, 
and  there  was  a  little  baby ;  but  they  hadn't 
any  time  to  think  of  that,  and  they  laid  it 
down  softly,  and  attended  to  Tonietta ;  and 
after  a  time  she  opened  her  eyes  as  if  she 
were  dazed,  and  stared  at  them,  and  then 
felt  in  her  bosom  and  cried  out,  '  My  baby  ! ' 
'  It 's  all  safe,'  said  Gigia ;  and  then  Toni 
etta  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying,  and  said, 
'  Bablo,  babbo !  oh,  babbo !  oh,  mamma, 
mamma !  Is  it  a  dream  ?  —  are  you  here  ?  — 
are  you  here,  really  ? — really  ?  O  Dio  !  Dio  ! 
Dio  !  have  pity  on  me  ! '  and  then  she  got  up 
staggering,  and  fell  upon  her  mother's  breast 
and  wept,  and  cried  all  sorts  of  things. 
And  they  soothed  her  at  last,  and  took  off 
her  wet  clothes  and  put  her  to  bed,  and  gave 
her  some  wine  and  rubbed  her  fvell,  for  she 
was  nearly  frozen  ;  and  the  baby,  too,  they 
laid  on  the  bed  at  her  side.  Poor  little 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  77 

thing  !  she  had  kept  it  warm  against  her 
heart  all  that  cold,  bitter  night,  when  she 
herself  was  nearly  frozen." 

"  And  that  baby  was  Fiammetta  ?  "  said 
Marco. 

"  Yes,  signer,  that  baby  was  Fiammetta  — 
or  Gitana,  as  we  call  her  —  because  she  has 
such  a  gypsy  look  and  something  so  odd 
about  her." 

"  And  Tonietta,  her  mother,  what  became 
of  her?" 

"  Oh,  poor  thing !  she  never  looked  up 
after  that  night  —  never  again  was  strong, 
and  slowly  pined  away.  What  with  the 
disgrace  and  the  sufferings  she  had  under 
gone,  and  the  disappointment  and  that  cruel 
night,  she  was  beaten  down  to  the  earth  and 
broken  like  a  tree  snapped  in  the  tempest. 
She  went  about  looking  like  a  shadow  of 
her  former  self ;  never  laughed,  and  her 
smile  was  sad  enough  to  make  you  cry. 
And  to  make  a  long  story  short  —  for  I  am 
afraid  I  have  been  talking  too  much  —  she 
slowly  pined  away,  like  a  wounded  creature 
that  some  hunter  has  shot ;  and  at  last  we 
carried  her  up  to  the  churchyard,  and  there 
she  lies  —  at  peace  at  last !  " 

"Did  she  never  tell  the  story  of  what 
happened  to  her  during  her  absence  ?  " 


78  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Oh,  yes,  signer  ;  little  by  little  it  all 
came  out,  and  Gigia  has  often  told  it  to  me. 
The  gentleman  carried  her  away  off  to  a  far, 
far  country ;  and  at  first  he  was  very  kind 
to  her,  and  gave  her  beautiful  dresses  and 
necklaces,  and  was  proud  of  her;  and  she 
lived  in  a  beautiful  house  and  had  no  work 
to  do,  and  was  happy,  and  he  kept  saying 
he  would  marry  her  and  make  a  great  lady 
of  her.  But  after  a  time,  —  oh  dear  me, 
signor,  it  is  all  the  old  story,  just  what,  of 
course,  any  one  might  guess  without  being 
much  of  a  magician,  —  he  began  to  go  away, 
and  be  gone  for  weeks  on  some  excuse  or 
other ;  and  at  last,  after  being  gone  for  more 
than  a  month,  he  came  back,  and  somehow 
she  saw  by  his  face  and  his  looks  that  some 
thing  had  happened,  he  was  so  altered.  He 
tried,  she  said,  to  be  kind  ;  but  there  was 
some  strange  difference.  He  had  some 
thing  on  his  mind  and  she  knew  it,  and 
begged  him  to  tell  her  what  it  was.  But 
he  would  not  say ;  and  then  at  last,  after  he 
had  been  there  a  few  days,  he  came  into  the 
room,  and  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her 
hands,  and  said,  'Tonietta,  this  cannot  go 
on  any  longer.  It  is  of  no  use  —  I  might 
as  well  tell  you  first  as  last  —  I  must  leave 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  79 

you ;  I  am  going  to  be  married.  You  have 
been  very  good  ;  but '  — 

"  '  Married ! '  she  cried  ;  aghast,  poor 
thing.  '  Have  you  not  always  promised  to 
marry  me  ? ' 

"  i  Be  reasonable,'  he  said  ;  '  that  you 
know  is  impossible.' 

""'  Why,  impossible.  Did  you  not  prom 
ise  me  on  your  honor  to  marry  me  ?  Why 
did  you  make  me  come  away  with  you  ? ' 

"  '  Whether  I  promised  or  not  is  not  the 
question.  What  I  wish  you  to  understand  is, 
that  it  is  impossible  now ;  for  I  am  pledged 
to  marry  another.' 

"  '  And  who  is  she  ? '  said  Tonietta. 

"  4  No  matter  who  she  is,'  he  said. 

"  c  I  will  find  her  out.  I  will  tell  her  all. 
If  she  has  any  heart  she  will  never  let  me 
be  cast  away  thus.  Oh,  it  is  horrible  !  it 
is  horrible !  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  will  find 
her;  I  will.' 

"  '  No  ;  you  will  never  find  her,'  he  said  ; 
'  and  it  would  be  useless  if  you  did.  You 
need  not  storm  and  cry.  That  will  do  no 
good.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  could  not  believe  you  would  be  so 
base,  so  infamous  ! '  she  cried.  '  To  bring 
me  away  here,  where  I  am  all  alone,  and 


80  FIAMMETTA. 

then  to  break  your  word,  and  abandon  me, 
and  ruin  me.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  have  been ! ' 
and  she  wept  and  grieved  and  begged ;  but 
he  remained  like  a  stone.  Yes,  like  a  stone, 
she  said. 

"  l  And  so  you  throw  me  off,  and  leave  me 
here  a  beggar,  in  a  far  land  beyond  all  my 
friends.' 

"  4  Ah,  no !  not  that,'  he  said.  l  You  shall 
not  say  that.  You  shall  not  be  a  beggar  as 
you  say.  You  shall,  on  the  contrary,  be 
cared  for,  and  be  rich,  and  be  able  to  do 
what  you  will.' 

"And  then  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a 
great  pocket-book,  and  a  purse,  and  said, 
4  There  are,'  —  I  don't  know  how  many 
thousands  of  francs  he  said ;  but  it  was  a 
very  large  sum,  more  than  I  ever  saw,  sig- 
nor.  '  That  is  yours  to  do  with  it  what  you 
like ;  to  go  back  to  your  country  if  you  will ; 
to  stay  here  if  you  will,'  and  he  laid  the 
money  down  on  the  table. 

"  Then  she  rose,  wiped  away  her  tears, 
took  the  pocket-book  and  purse  and  flung 
them  on  the  ground,  and  said,  '  I  will  have 
none  of  them ;  not  one  sous ;  I  will  go ;  I 
will  buy  my  way  back.  Nothing  will  I  have 
of  yours.  You  are  an  infamous  man ! ' 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  81 

"  c  You  '11  think  better  of  it  when  the 
morning  comes,'  he  said.  '  Don't  be  a  fool. 
Take  the  money :  it  is  yours,  and  you  have 
a  right  to  it.' 

"  4  It  is  the  wages  of  sin,'  she  cried.  '  I 
will  not  touch  it.  While  you  loved  me,  or 
saicl  you  did  at  least,  I  would  take  anything 
from  you.  What  was  mine  was  yours,  and 
what  was  yours  was  mine.  Now  it  is  dif 
ferent.  You  are  a  base  man.  I  gave  you 
my  love  freely,  trustingly.  You  have  be 
trayed  me.  My  curse  shall  be  on  you 
wherever  you  go.' 

"  '  There  is  no  use,'  he  said,  '  to  talk  with 
you  now.  You  are  too  excited  to  reason.  I 
will  leave  you  and  come  to  see  you  to-mor 
row,  when  you  are  quieter.  I  leave  the 
money.  If  you  will  not  touch  it,  I  will  not. 
There  it  is.' 

"  And  then  he  went  away  and  left  her  ; 
and  she  stormed  and  cried  for  hours  all  the 
long  evening ;  and  then  she  sat  down  and 
leaned  her  face  on  both  her  hands,  and 
thought  what  she  should  do  ;  and  then  she 
went  into  her  bedroom  and  selected  out  of 
all  her  clothes  a  few  of  the  stoutest,  some 
that  she  had  bought  in  the  first  days  of 
their  love,  and  those  she  bound  up  in  a 


82  FIAMMETTA. 

bundle ;  and  then  she  looked  over  the 
drawers  where  her  ornaments  were,  and  out 
of  these  she  chose  a  few  rings,  and  a  neck 
lace  or  two,  and  a  couple  of  bracelets,  and  she 
said  to  herself,  c  These  at  least  I  can  take  ; 
they  were  the  gifts  of  love,  they  belong  to 
me ;  and  what  can  I  do  without  money,'  as 
he  says,  here,  so  far  away  from  everybody.' 
Then  her  spirit  revolted,  for  Tonietta  was 
very  proud,  and  she  laid  them  all  down 
again,  and  said,  '  No !  I  will  have  nothing  of 
his  —  nothing.  I  will  go  away  as  I  came.' 
Then  she  lay  down  on  the  bed,  and  after  a 
while  she  fell  asleep,  crying  bitterly,  poor 
thing,  and  got  a  little  rest.  At  the  earliest 
break  of  day  she  rose,  dressed  herself,  en 
closed  all  the  money  in  a  letter  addressed  to 
him,  and  left  it  on  the  table,  then  took  her 
bundle,  placed  it  on  her  head  as  she  used  to 
do,  as  we  all  do  here,  and  walked  out  of  the 
house.  Where  she  was  going  she  did  not 
know.  She  did  not  care.  The  whole  world 
was  nothing  to  her  now.  She  only  wanted 
to  go  somewhere  and  die.  Somewhere  to 
hide  herself  in,  where  he  should  not  find  her. 
"  And  so  she  went  on,  the  whole  day,  out 
of  the  town  into  the  high-road,  and  when 
night  came  on,  worn-out  and  hungry,  she 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  83 

stopped  at  a  house  and  begged  for  a  crust  of 
bread,  and  the  people  were  kind  and  gave  it 
to  her,  for  she  was  a  stranger,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  manner  and  voice  that 
touched  them,  and  then  she  thanked  them 
and  journeyed  on,  and  slept  that  night 
under  a  hay-rick ;  and  in  the  morning  she 
was  off  again  by  daybreak,  and  inquired  the 
way  to  Italy  of  some  persons  she  met  on  the 
road;  but  some  of  them  knew  of  no  such 
place,  and  some  knew  not  how  she  should  go. 
At  last,  however,  she  met  a  gentleman,  and 
she  inquired  of  him,  and  he  looked  at  her, 
and  asked  her  if  she  was  an  Italian,  and  said 
it  was  a  long  way  off,  and  he  seemed  to  pity 
her,  and  told  her  the  way,  and  spoke  to  her 
in  her  own  language,  and  asked  her  how  she 
expected  to  get  there,  and  why  she  did  not 
take  a  coach  or  diligence;  and  she  smiled 
sadly,  and  said,  '  Ah !  signer,  how  can  I  go 
in  a  diligence  ?  I  have  not  a  sous  even  to 
buy  my  bread.'  And  then  he  said,  '  There 's 
a  gold  piece  for  you.'  '  For  me  ?  '  she  said  ; 
4  Why,  I  did  not  ask  for  money.'  '  But  you 
will  need  it,'  says  he,  '  and  take  it,  please. 
You  make  me  think  of  the  happy  days  I 
spent  in  Italy.  You  will  do  me  a  pleasure 
if  you  will  take  it.'  '  May  God  bless  you ! ' 


84  FIAMMETTA. 

said  she,  and  she  took  it  and  went  on.  So 
day  after  day  passed,  and  one  evening  she 
came  upon  an  encampment  of  gypsies,  and 
she  walked  up  to  them.  They  were  boiling 
a  kettle  over  a  fire  of  sticks,  and  the  savor 
of  the  mess  was  good  to  her  nostrils,  for  she 
was  very  tired  ami  hungry,  and  she  looked 
wistfully  at  it.  An  old  woman  was  seated 
there,  and  two  stately  girls  stood  beside  her, 
and  two  or  three  men  were  moving  about 
the  tents,  and  she  said,  4  Buona,  sera !  ' 
and  they  all  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then  one  of  the  girls  came  forward  and 
spoke  to  her  in  a  language  she  did  not 
understand,  and  she  shook  her  head  and 
smiled  ;  and  the  girl  again  spoke,  and  again 
she  shook  her  head,  and  said,  '  Sono  Itali- 
anaj  and  then  the  girl  said,  also  in  Italian, 
4 1  thought  you  were  a  gypsy  too  at  first,' 
and  they  all  nodded  their  heads.  Then 
they  asked  her  to  sit  down,  and  they  gave 
her  of  their  broth,  and  they  were  kind  to 
her,  and  she  told  them  she  was  poor  and 
was  going  back  to  Italy,  and  did  not  know 
if  she  should  ever  get  there.  And  they 
said,  '  Will  you  go  with  us  ?  we  are  going 
that  way.'  And  she  said  she  would.  So 
she  went  with  them,  and  she  worked  for 


FIAMMETTA.  85 

them,  and  they  told  her  they  knew  she  was 
a  gypsy  though  she  would  not  acknowledge 
it ;  and  tKe  two  girls  became  her  great 
friends,  and  she  told  them  her  story,  and 
they  were  kinder  than  ever,  and  then  they 
taught  her  to  tell  fortunes  by  the  hand, 
signor,  and  all  sorts  of  things  they  taught 
her,  and  they  were  very  careful  of  her,  for 
they  saw  she  was  approaching  her  time  to 
have  a  child.  Their  journeys  were  short, 
and  when  she  was  tired  they  gave  her  a  seat 
in  their  great  wagon.  And  so  they  came 
down  into  Italy.  And  one  beautiful  au 
tumn  day,  while  the  encampment  was  rest 
ing  for  a  week  or  two,  she  gave  birth  to  a 
little  girl,  our  little  Fiammetta.  She  was 
very  ill  after  this ;  but  the  gypsies  nursed 
her  well,  and  gradually  she  grew  stronger, 
though  she  could  not  walk  long,  and  most  of 
the  journeys  she  was  in  the  wagon.  Ah! 
she  said,  signor,  she  never  could  forget  all 
their  kindness.  It  was  all  as  if  she  had  come 
upon  a  band  of  Maritani  like  those  in  the 
Holy  Book  that  Father  Anselmo  tells  us 
about,  who,  he  said,  poured  oil  into  wounds 
of  a  man  who  had  been  assassinated,  though 
I  never  heard  oil  was  good  for  wounds,  that 
is,  unless  it  had  the  St.  John's  wort  leaves 


86  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

in  it,  which  they  say  are  good  for  wounds. 
However,  he  meant  to  be  kind,  this  Signor 
Maritano,  and  that  is  what  I  mean. 

"  Well,  well,  signer  ;  there  is  not  much 
more  to  tell,  and  I  know  I  tell  it  badly  ;  but 
what  would  you  ?  I  am  only  an  ignorante. 
But  to  finish  my  story.  At  last  Tonietta 
began  to  have  a  yearning  for  her  home  and 
her  babbo  and  mamma,  and  had  many  a 
heartache  when  she  thought  of  them,  and  she 
longed  to  see  the  old  place.  Ah  !  we  all  of 
us  do,  signor,  no  matter  how  poor  it  may  be. 
It  keeps  growing  and  growing  and  growing 
in  our  imaginations  when  we  are  away  from 
it,  and  all  the  little  pleasures  live  in  our 
memories,  and  all  the  pains  and  troubles  die, 
and  there  comes  a  sort  of  glory  over  the 
meanest  things.  Madonna  miaf  what  a 
farm  it  seems  to  me  was  ours ;  how  big  the 
house  seems  where  I  lived  when  I  was  a 
girl!  I  suppose  it  is  a  poor  little  place 
enough,  really,  but  it  never  seems  so,  and 
Pietro  stops  me  instantly  when  I  am  brag 
ging  about  it. 

"  Well,  all  good  things  end  at  last,  and  so 
do  all  bad  ones,  too,  for  that  matter ;  and 
the  autumn  is  always  melancholy  somehow 
or  other,  who  knows  why  ?  —  and  when  the 


FIAMMETTA.  87 

cold  days  came  and  the  rains  set  in,  the  open 
life  in  the  country  with  her  friends  the  gyp 
sies,  kind  as  they  were,  was  more  than  she 
could  bear,  for  she  was  no  longer  the  stout, 
proud  lass  that  she  was  when  she  went  away, 
but  sad  and  weak  and  broken  in  health  and 
spirits  ;  and  one  day  she  said  to  them  that 
she  must  go.  They  urged  her  to  stay  ;  but 
it  was  of  no  use.  She  had  to  go  ;  it  was  in 
her  mind  that  she  must.  It  was  not  a  mat 
ter  of  reasoning,  nor  of  duty,  nor  of  anything 
she  could  explain  ;  but  it  was  just  as  a  stream 
must  go  on  and  on,  whether  it  will  or  no  — 
of  necessity,  not  of  will. 

"  And  when  the  time  came  to  go  her  heart 
came  all  up  in  her  throat,  she  said  ;  and  she 
cried  till  her  eyes  were  red ;  and  she  kissed 
and  blessed  all  of  them  ;  and  they  went  with 
her  a  couple  of  miles,  and  then  said  a  last 
good-by.  And  she  had  never  thought  of 
how  she  should  get  on  without  money,  though 
she  had  a  long,  tedious  journey  before  her, 
and  was  weak,  and  had  her  baby  to  carry ; 
and  it  was  not  till  she  had  walked  nearly  all 
day,  and  was  utterly  tired  out,  that  she  began 
to  ask  herself  what  she  should  do.  Then  a 
sort  of  despair  came  over  her,  and  she 
wished  she  had  never  left  her  friends  ;  for 


88  FIAMMETTA. 

there  she  was  alone  without  a  sous,  and  weak 
and  unable  to  bear  fatigue,  and  her  baby 
dependent  on  her  for  milk,  and  a  weary 
weight  to  bear,  and  the  winds  at  night  so 
cold  even  in  the  valleys  that  she  dared  not 
lie  on  the  grass  ;  and  what  was  she  to  do. 
As  these  thoughts  came  over  her  in  a  rush 
all  together,  she  sank  down  on  a  stone  by  the 
wayside,  and  as  she  did  this  she  heard  some 
thing  strike  the  stone  with  a  clink.  *  What 
was  it  ? '  she  thought.  4 1  do  not  remember 
that  I  have  anything  in  my  pocket  to  make 
a  clink  like  that.'  Then  she  put  her  hand 
into  her  pocket,  and  found  a  little  purse  with 
six  silver  pieces  in  it,  that  the  gypsies  must 
have  slipped  in  without  her  knowledge. 
Down  she  knelt  on  the  grass  and  prayed  for 
them  ;  and  then  revived,  she  went  on  ;  and 
she  soon  found  a  shelter  and  a  supper.  Ah, 
signer !  to  have  nothing  at  such  a  time  is 
terrible  —  when  famine  comes,  and  grins  at 
us  like  a  wild  beast  through  the  bars  of  a 
cage,  and  our  sleep  is  full  of  fearful  dreams. 
"  After  a  week's  toiling  on,  at  last  that 
fearful  November  night  she  came  up  the 
mountains.  You  know  those  stony,  steep, 
hard  paths.  Poor  creature  !  it  was  all  that 
she  could  do  to  climb  up  them,  resting  every 


FIAMMETTA.  89 

now  and  then  for  breath,  chilled  to  the  heart, 
wet  to  the  skin.  The  wind  raved  —  the 
storm  drenched  and  beat  against  her  —  all 
the  devils  of  the  Inferno  were  in  the  trees 
screaming  at  her.  She  could  scarcely  see 
her  footing  —  she  constantly  slipped  down  — 
and  had  she  not  known  the  path  well,  she 
could  never  have  reached  her  home.  But, 
blessed  be  the  Virgin  and  all  the  saints! 
she  did  arrive  at  last,  as  I  have  told  you. 

"  And  that,  Signor  Conte,  is  what  Gigia 
told  me,  and,  I  suppose,  it  is  true.  But  I 
spoil  it  all  in  the  telling." 

"  It  is  a  sad  story  enough,"  said  Marco. 
"  Poor  Tonietta  !  Let  us  hope  that  Fiam- 
metta  will  have  better  luck." 

"  Let  us  hope  so ;  but  who  knows  ?  She 
is  so  strange.  She  does  not  seem  like  one 
of  us  —  has  odd  notions  about  everything. 
She  must  have  got  it  from  her  father,  I 
think,  though  there  is  a  good  deal  of  her 
mother  in  her  too,  I  think  sometimes  ;  but, 
Madonna  mia  !  what  right  have  I  to  think 
about  it  ?  No  matter  ;  what  will  be  will  be, 
sign  or,  as  the  saying  goes." 

"  Does  she  know  all  this  story  about  her 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;    I  suppose  so  —  that  is, 


90  FIAMMETTA. 

generally.  I  suppose  she  knows  that  her 
father  was  not  one  of  us,  and  was  a  gentle 
man  and  a  foreigner  ;  but  how  much  more 
she  knows  I  cannot  say.  Blood,  signer, 
blood  will  tell ;  and  one  cannot  expect  she 
should  be  like  us,  and  as  for  who  her  father 
was,  I  don't  think  even  Gigia  knows  ;  and 
if  she  did,  she  would  not  tell  Fiammetta. 
It  would  only  give  her  wrong  notions  about 
herself,  and  make  her  discontented,  and  set 
her  to  dreaming  about  possibilities  that  can 
never  occur.  She  might  be  expecting  him 
to  come  and  take  her  away,  and  make  a 
grand  lady  of  her,  and  give  her  a  fortune, 
or  any  such  foolish  thing." 

"  And  nothing  has  ever  been  heard  of 
him  since  ?  "  asked  Marco. 

"  Nothing,  signor.  He  went  out  of  all 
our  knowledge,  and  of  Tonietta's  too,  like 
a  candle  blown  out  by  the  wind.  He  came 
and  he  went,  and  that  is  all  we  know.  "\Vlio 
he  was  nobody  knows,  not  even  the  Mar- 
chesa,  who  used  to  meet  him,  and  talk  with 
him ;  but  he  was  a  gentleman,  that  we  know. 
You  could  not  see  him  without  knowing  that, 
for  he  had  certain  high  ways  about  him,  and 
his  hands  were  white  and  small,  and  long- 
fingered,  just  like  Fiammetta's,  if  you  looked 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  91 

at  them,  but  I  suppose  you  did  not :  they  are 
long  and  small  too.  But,  dear  me,  how  I  am 
talking  on !  Pray  excuse  me,  Signor  Conte, 
I  am  afraid  I  have  tired  you  out,  and,  with 
permission,  I  will  go  and  prepare  your  sup 
per  now,  if  you  please.  It  is  getting  late, 
and  I  have  been  chattering  here  too  long." 

"Thanks!  thanks!"  said  Marco.  "You 
have,  on  the  contrary,  interested  me  very 
much.  It  is  a  very  curious  story,  and  a 
very  interesting  one." 

And  Maria  then  went  away.  Marco  stood 
at  the  door  and  looked  out  and  mused.  The 
dying  light  was  faint  in  the  west ;  the  vast 
shadows  were  filling  the  valley;  the  moun 
tains  became  dark  silhouettes  against  the 
sky  ;  the  grilli  were  chirping  a  continuous 
low  song  in  the  grass,  and  a  mystery  was 
spreading  over  all  the  world.  The  story  that 
Maria  had  told  profoundly  interested  him, 
and  the  peculiar  figure  and  expression  of  Fi- 
ammetta,  her  voice,  her  bearing,  the  look  in 
her  eyes,  short  as  their  interview  had  been, 
had  left  a  singular  impression  on  his  mind. 
He  stood  there  silently,  looking  up  towards 
the  woods,  where  he  had  caught  the  last 
glance  of  her  figure  as  it  vanished  from 
sight,  and  his  imagination  followed  her  on 


VJZ  F I  AM M  ETTA. 

her  way,  after  she  had  passed  beyond  his  vis 
ion  ;  figuring  her  as  she  passed  through  the 
solemn  woods  and  climbed  the  steep  paths 
all  alone,  and  going  with  her  in  spirit. 

So  he  stood  musing  and  dreaming  for  a 
half  hour,  and  then  he  was  roused  from  his 
reverie  by  the  call  of  Maria,  — 

"  Signor  Conte,  at  your  convenience,  sup 
per  is  ready." 

Prose,  dull  prose,  after  all  the  poetry. 
The  voice  of  Maria  jarred  on  him ;  the 
fact  of  supper  jarred.  It  woke  him  from  a 
dream  that  he  willingly  would  have  pro 
longed.  He  had  no  appetite.  Eating  seemed 
but  a  wretched  material  animal  necessity, 
after  the  spiritual  manna  of  dreams  upon 
which  his  thoughts  had  been  feeding.  He 
still  lingered,  but  the  spell  was  broken,  and 
then  Maria's  voice  was  heard  again,  — 

"  Signor,  with  permission,  the  frittata  is 
growing  cold." 


CHAPTER  V. 

FIAMMETTA,  after  saying  her  last  addio, 
pursued  her  way  lightly  through  the  trees, 
leaping  the  watercourses  and  climbing  the 
hills;  her  mind  and  thoughts  stirred  by  a 
strange  agitated  sense,  which  she  could  not 
account  for.  Few  words  had  been  spoken 
between  her  and  Marco,  only  a  few  glances 
had  passed  between  them ;  but  they  had 
left  a  sudden  and  strange  influence  on  her, 
of  gladness,  of  excitement,  and  of  doubt. 
Long  as  the  way  was,  it  seemed  short  to 
her.  Through  the  shadowy  dark  of  the  firs, 
over  the  open  spaces  where  the  yellow  gorse 
glowed,  she  rapidly  moved,  noticing  nothing, 
and  walking  as  in  a  dream  —  the  face  of 
Marco  constantly  before  her,  the  voice  of 
Marco  ringing  in  her  ears.  Nothing  else 
did  she  hear  or  see;  her  mind,  as  it  were, 
listening,  her  spirit  magnetized.  She  could 
not  account  for  this.  Something  had  hap 
pened,  so  new,  so  strange,  so  sweet;  and 
yet  what  it  was  she  could  not  tell.  Some- 


94  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

thing  had  happened.  What?  and  as  she 
asked  herself  this  question,  she  smiled,  took 
a  quicker  step,  and  then  sighed  and  said 
aloud,  "  Nonsense.  What  is  he  to  me  ? 
What  am  I  to  him?" 

Never  had  she  known  anything  like  this 
before.  Her  heart  was  virgin,  her  spirits 
untamed.  The  flatteries  of  all  the  men  she 
had  ever  met  had  been  to  her  but  as  the  idle 
wind  that  blows  upon  dead  leaves.  They 
had  stirred  no  pulse  in  her  veins,  love  she 
had  laughed  at,  nothing  had  ever  wakened 
a  response  in  her  heart.  She  was  to  all 
their  advances  as  hard  as  the  granite  rock. 
But  now  a  breath  passed  over  her,  which 
was  as  it  were  nothing,  and  yet  it  had  stirred 
her  spirit  to  its  depths,  and  created  a  sud 
den  tumult  in  her  thoughts  which  she  could 
neither  understand  nor  explain.  It  was  as 
when  a  warm  wind  of  spring  dissolves  the 
rigid  surface  of  ice  which  had  long  locked 
up  and  frozen  the  genial  current  of  some 
placid  stream,  and  where  was  once  stillness 
and  silence  is  now  the  wild  turbulent  hurry 
of  an  impetuous  torrent,  overflowing  its 
banks,  and  sweeping  it  knows  not  where. 
As  yet  the  ice  in  her  nature  was  not  melted, 
the  course  of  her  thoughts  not  impetuous ; 


FIAMMETTA.  95 

but  the  sense  of  a  change  had  come,  and  the 
prophetic  feeling  of  something,  she  knew 
not  what,  yet  to  come. 

There  was  apparently  no  sufficient  cause 
for  this  change ;  but  a  change  there  was,  and 
she  felt  it  without  acknowledging  it,  and 
yielded  to  it  simply.  Her  life  had  been  in 
the  fields  and  moors  and  by  the  streams,  — 
a  child  of  nature,  fed  by  its  genial  influence, 
a  playmate  of  the  seasons,  loving  all  natural 
things,  troubled  by  no  self -introspections, 
philosophical  questionings,  and  worldly  am 
bitions,  —  she  had  lived  her  life  from  day  to 
day,  as  the  flowers  live,  as  the  trees  live,  as 
any  wild  animal  lives.  Her  strong  affec 
tions  had  never  been  roused  and  concen 
trated  on  any  one  person  or  thing,  but  scat 
tered  on  every  side,  on  all  forms  of  beauty 
and  grace,  wherever  she  met  them.  Now 
she  was  vibrating  to  a  touch  unknown  be 
fore,  which  brought  from  her  spirit  a  thrill 
of  a  strange  new  music,  to  which  she  lis 
tened  with  surprise,  and  with  a  sense  of  rest 
less  pleasure. 

The  five  miles  she  had  to  traverse  seemed 
to  her  shorter  than  she  had  ever  known  them 
before,  so  busy  were  her  thoughts.  Thoughts 
is  too  strong  a  word,  however,  to  express 


96  FIAMMETTA. 

what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  There  was 
nothing  definite  in  them  ;  they  went  to  no 
end,  and  were  animated  by  no  distinct  pur 
pose  or  wish,  save  one,  perhaps,  to  see  Marco 
again.  Rather  were  they  like  the  moonlit 
misty  haze  which  hid  the  depths  of  the  val 
ley  below  her  and  lent  to  it  a  sweet  mysteri 
ous  beauty ;  or  like  the  faint  breathings  of 
the  air,  that  played  in  the  leaves,  with  soft 
and  tender  sighings,  now  rising  and  now 
falling,  as  if  the  earth  was  whispering  in  its 
sleep. 

It  was  already  dark  when  she  came  in 
sight  of  the  house  where  she  lived.  A  light 
was  shining  in  the  windows,  where  she  knew 
her  grandmother  and  grandfather  were  wait 
ing  for  her.  When  she  arrived  on  the  plat 
form  of  green  meadow  before  the  house,  she 
paused.  She  was  sorry  her  walk  was  over, 
it  had  been  so  pleasant,  never  so  pleasant 
before,  and  now  she  must  go  in,  now  it  must 
end.  Yet  she  stood  still  and  did  not  move  : 
she  could  not  bring  her  mind  to  go  in.  All 
would  be  so  different  inside,  —  the  grand 
mother  would  ask  questions,  and  she  did  not 
wish  to  talk  ;  and  her  grandfather  tell  her 
she  had  stayed  out  too  late,  and  they  would 
make  her  eat  something,  and  all  the  prose 


FIAMMETTA.  97 

would  come  again,  —  and  out  under  the  stars 
was  so  silent,  so  tender,  so  gentle,  almost  she 
wished  she  could  lie  down  and  sleep  all  night 
on  the  grass,  so  that  she  might  not  be  obliged 
to  talk,  and  so  she  stood  for  a  time  dream 
ing. 

At  last  she  heard  the  door  open  and  saw 
her  grandfather  come  and  peer  out  into  the 
night.  "Ah,  it  is  all  over,"  she  said  to 
herself  now,  and  she  moved  forwards  to 
him. 

"  Alt,  that  is  you  at  last,  Fiammetta,"  he 
cried,  "  how  late  you  are  ?  Come  in,  child  ! 
Your  Nonna  has  been  wondering  for  the 
last  half  hour  where  you  were,  and  whether 
something  might  not  have  happened  to  you." 

"  Am  I  late  ?  "  said  Fiammetta. 

"  Very  late  —  come  in  ;  "  and  she  went  in. 

Her  grandmother  was  sitting  by  the  table 
knitting  a  pair  of  stockings.  She  looked  up, 
and  said,  "  How  late  you  are,  child  ;  where 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"  You  know,  Nonna,  you  sent  me  down  to 
the  Villa." 

"  Have  you  been  nowhere  else  ?  " 

"  No ;  nowhere." 

"  And  did  you  see  the  Signer  Conte  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Nonna." 

7 


98  FJAMMETTA. 

"And  did  you  give  him  the  strawber 
ries?" 

"  Yes,  Nonna." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"He  thanked  you  very  much,  and  said 
you  were  very  kind  to  think  of  him." 

"Anything  else?" 

"  Yes,  Nonna.  He  was  very  sorry  for 
your  rheumatism." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  with  you,  child  ? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me  all  about  him  ?  What 
else  did  he  say?  How  did  he  look  ?  '" 

"  He  said  he  would  come  up  and  see  you." 

"  Sant'  Antonio  !  will  he,  indeed.  I  shall 
be  so  happy  to  see  him  again.  He  always 
was  a  good  kind  youth  —  was  n't  he,  To- 
nio?" 

"  Aye  ;  he  was,"  said  the  grandfather. 

"  Well,  well ;  to  think  of  his  being  grown 
up  to  be  a  man  now.  Let  me  see,  it  is  how 
many  years  since  I  saw  him  ?  Eh,  Tonio  ?  " 

"  Some  ten  years,  I  think  —  that  is,  some 
where  about  ten  years.  Let  me  see  —  it  was 
just  about  the  time  when  we  bought  our  don 
key,  and  that  must  be  some  ten  years  ago." 

"  So  long,  so  long  ;  how  the  years  go  by ! 
He  was  a  handsome  youth  then.  How  does 
he  look  now,  Fiammetta?  Tell  us  all  about 


FIAMMETTA.  99 

him.     Has  he  grown  up  to  be  as  handsome 
as  he  promised  ?     Did  he  remember  you  ?  " 
1  "  Yes !     No  !     I  don't  know,"  said  Fiam- 
metta. 

"  Bless  me,  Fiammetta,  have  you  lost  your 
tongue  ?  Can't  you  tell  me  how  he  looked  ? 
Is  he  tall  ?  Is  he  handsome  ?  Did  you  like 
him?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  tall,  I  think  ;  he  is  handsome, 
I  suppose." 

"Well,  if  that  is  all  you  can  say,  it  is 
pretty  plain  that  he  did  not  make  much  im 
pression  on  you.  I  don't  believe  you  even 
looked  at  him  enough  to  tell  me  how  he 
looked.  But  no  matter,  he  is  coming  here, 
and  I  shall  see  and  judge  for  myself." 

Then  the  grandmother  looked  steadily  at 
Fiammetta  with  a  scrutinizing  glance,  and 
said,  "Is  anything  the  matter  with  you, 
child?" 

"  No,  nothing,  Nonna." 

"  What  makes  you  look  so,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Nonna ;  nothing  is  the 
matter  with  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  walked  too  far  and 
too  fast.  You  look  feverish.  Did  anything 
happen  to  you  on  the  road  or  down  at  the 
Villa?" 


100  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  No,  Nonna ;  not  that  I  know." 
"  Well,  go  to  bed  ;  that  is  the  best  thing 
for  you,  and  perhaps  to-morrow  you  will  be 
able  to  find  your  tongue  and  tell  us  some 
thing  more." 

Glad  to  get  away,  Fiammetta  took  her 
light  and  left  the  room  after  saying  good 
night.  Yes ;  she  was  glad  to  be  alone  again, 
and  to  have  no  questions  asked,  and  to  be 
cross-examined  no  further.  How  could  she 
answer  such  questions  ?  How  could  she  tell 
what  he  looked  like  ?  How  could  she  say 
whether  she  liked  him,  and  what  was  the 
matter  with  her?  She  did  not  know  her 
self.  Perhaps  it  was  a  fever,  who  could  tell  ? 
Perhaps  in  the  morning,  when  she  had  slept, 
she  should  wake  up  and  find  everything  dif 
ferent  from  what  it  was  now,  and  like  what 
it  used  to  be  ?  Perhaps,  and  then  again, 
perhaps  he  had  cast  a  spell  upon  her  ? 
There  is  no  doubt,  she  thought,  that  some 
persons  can  cast  spells  on  persons  and  cat 
tle  and  sheep,  and  then  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
"  But  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  as  she  got  into 
bed  and  blew  out  her  light ;  "  I  don't  care  if 
he  has ;  no,  I  don't  care  if  he  has." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  next  morning,  when  Marco  arose,  a 
strong  desire  seized  him  to  go  to  work  again. 
He  had  been  so  long  idle,  mooning  about  and 
doing  nothing,  that  he  began  to  weary  of  it 
—  art  again  claimed  him.  "  At  this  rate," 
he  said,  "  I  shall  do  nothing  all  summer,  and 
I  will  take  my  sketch-book  to-day  and  see  if 
I  can  find  anything  that  will  really  make  a 
picture.  After  all,  laziness  begins  to  pall  at 
last,  and  I  have  had  enough  of  it." 

So  he  took  his  sketch-book,  and  wandered 
out  into  the  woods,  almost  without  any  in 
tention  to  go  to  any  place  —  at  least  so  he 
thought ;  yet  almost,  perhaps  not  quite,  un 
consciously  his  steps  took  the  direction  of 
the  Casetta,  as  it  was  called,  where  Antonio 
and  Gigia  lived. 

As  he  walked  along,  and  sometimes  paused 
and  threw  himself  on  the  grass,  the  image 
of  Fiammetta  pursued  him.  He  could  not 
get  her  out  of  his  thoughts.  Her  beauty, 
her  wild  grace,  as  of  some  uncultivated 


102  .FIAXtfSTJ'A. 

flower,  haunted  him.  "  What  eyes !  what 
eyes ! "  he  said  to  himself.  "  They  fairly 
magnetized  me.  And  what  a  figure !  There 
is  something  in  the  child  that  affects  me 
more  than  I  like  to  own  to  myself.  How 
she  looked  at  me!  Who  could  have  been 
her  father  ?  There  is  evidently  in  her  veins 
the  blood  of  some  noble  race  —  everything 
shows  it.  It  is  not  mere  peasant  blood  — 
no,  no !  —  but  some  high  graft  of  civilization 
on  a  sturdy  wild  peasant  stock.  That  must 
be  it.  There  is  a  sort  of  fatality  about  her. 
What  a  smile  !  Poor  Tonietta  I  that  was  a 
sad  story  enough,  —  but  all  that  passion  of 
hers,  all  that  strength  that  comes  from  suf 
fering,  must  have  passed  into  this  poor 
child's  soul,  though  she  knows  it  not." 

Thus  wandering  along,  and  communing 
with  himself  —  despite  himself  thinking  con 
stantly  of  Fiammetta  —  he  at  last  came  to 
an  opening  of  the  woods,  and  down  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  saw  the  old  farmhouse  of  the 
Casetta,  where  Gigia  and  Antonio  lived. 

Here  he  paused,  and  reasoned  with  him 
self.  "  I  should  better  not  go  in,"  he 
thought.  "  It  will  be  better  for  me  and 
Fiammetta  that  I  should  not  go  there.  For 
somehow  or  other  I  seem  to  feel  that  —  that 


FIAMMETTA.  103 

—  well  —  that  I  should  better  not  go.  But 
why  not  ?  I  promised  Fiammetta  to  go  and 
call  upon  old  Gigia,  and  one  ought  to  keep 
one's  promises;  and,  besides,  I  know  the 
poor  old  woman  will  be  glad  to  see  me,  and 
I  ought  to  thank  her  for  the  strawberries. 
She  cannot  come  to  me,  and  she  will  think 
it  an  honor  (God  bless  the  mark,  what  poor 
creatures  we  all  are !)  if  I  go  to  see  her. 
But,  I  know  not  why,  there  is  something 
within  me  tells  me  not  to  go  —  tells  me  it  is 
a  step  on  a  shelving  precipice.  Yet  why? 
Lead  me  not  into  temptation.  Bah !  Every 
thing  is  a  temptation  in  life  that  has  any 
worth  in  it.  All  depends  on  what  the  temp 
tation  is.  Should  we  confine  ourselves  to 
the  fruit  that  is  sour  and  bitter  and  unripe, 
because  it  does  not  tempt  us?  and  is  it 
wrong  to  take  the  ripe  luscious  fruit  that 
does  tempt  us  ?  Does  God  make  beauty 
only  to  tempt  us?  That,  I  should  think, 
was  rather  the  devil's  work.  But  here  there 
is  no  temptation  to  wrong.  It  is  simply  a 
matter  of  courtesy  to  go  and  see  the  old  wo 
man  ;  and  if  Fiammetta  is  there,  is  that  my 
fault  ?  And  then,  again,  let  me  not  lie  to 
myself,  I  must  see  Fiammetta  again.  Why  ? 
She  can  live  without  seeing  me,  and  of  course 


104  F1AMMETTA. 

I  can  live  without  seeing  her.  Perhaps,  if  I 
see  her  again,  the  impression  I  received  from 
her  yesterday  will  be  cancelled  at  once.  It 
was  the  magic  of  the  twilight  and  the  sur 
prise  that  lent  her  that  peculiar  grace  and 
charm.  In  broad  daylight  all  things  wear  a 
different  aspect.  Besides,  I  am  curious  to 
see  if  she  again  will  look  as  she  did  last 
night.  Here  I  am  inventing  obstacles  that 
are  mere  shadows,  and  working  up  a  mighty 
mystery  out  of  nothing.  I  must  be  a  little 
out  of  sorts.  I  to  fall  in  love  with  a  peasant 
girl !  I !  This  is  my  foolish  way  of  going 
on,  and  poetizing  about  mere  common  facts. 
The  fact  is,  I  must  cure  myself  of  it." 

Having  thus  resolved,  he  went  straight  to 
the  Casetta,  and  there  he  found  Gigia  alone. 
She  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  for  his 
kindness  in  coming  to  see  her,  and  told  him 
how  he  had  grown,  and  how  well  she  remem 
bered  him  when  he  was  a  boy  —  a  bright  lit 
tle  boy  —  only  so  high,  you  know,  and  now 
to  think  that  he  was  such  a  piece  of  a  man, 
and  was  a  great  painter,  so  she  was  told. 
"No!  no!  not  like  the  old  Count,  though 
there  is  a  little  kind  of  something  like  him. 
But,  oh  dear !  yes,  so  like  the  Countess  of 
blessed  memory,  his  mother  —  ah,  a  good, 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  105 

good  woman.  You  don't  remember  her,  I 
suppose  ?  Ah  no,  how  could  you  ?  you  were 
so  small.  Yes  ;  do  you  really  ?  you  do  re 
member  her.  Ah  yes ;  you  were  five  when 
she  died,  so  you  might  remember  her.  I 
wondered  how  you  looked,  and  I  asked  Fi- 
ammetta  last  night  all  about  you ;  but  I 
could  get  nothing  out  of  her,  she  would  not 
say  anything.  She  was  tired,  I  suppose.  It 
was  a  long  walk,  not  that  it  is  a  long  walk 
for  her,  for  she  is  gone  sometimes  the  whole 
day.  But  I  was  afraid  that  she  was  a  little 
feverish,  she  looked  so.  But  no,  this  morn 
ing  she  seemed  all  right,  and  for  a  wonder 
she  has  stayed  near  the  house  all  the  morn 
ing.  She  must  be  here  now,  I  think.  Fiam- 
metta  !  Fiammetta  !  where  are  you  ?  Come 
here,  —  the  Signor  Conte  is  here." 

No  answer  was  made,  and  Gigia  went  and 
looked  out  of  the  door  and  called  again,  but 
all  in  vain. 

"  Ah,  well,"  she  said  at  last,  "  she  's  not 
here  ;  she  's  gone  away  somewhere.  Ah, 
here  's  Tonio.  I  say,  Tonio,  here  's  the  Sig 
nor  Conte." 

So  Tonio  came  in  and  shook  hands,  and 
was  proud  to  see  the  Conte  in  his  house,  and 
asked  the  same  questions  that  Gigia  had, 


106  FIAMMETTA. 

and  told  about  his  farm  and  the  cattle,  and 
the  weather,  and  all  the  stock  subjects,  and 
then  Gigia  said,  — 

"  Tonio,  when  you  came  in  I  was  just  call 
ing  for  Fiammetta.  Have  you  seen  her? 
She  was  here  a  little  while  ago.  She  would 
like,  I  am  sure,  to  see  the  Signor  Conte. 
Where  is  she  now,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Up  at  the  cascata,  I  think  it  probable," 
said  Tonio.  "  It 's  a  favorite  haunt  of  hers, 
and  I  think  I  heard  her  voice,  singing,  as  I 
came  down  the  hill.  But  who  can  tell  where 
she  is  ?  she  is  as  wild  as  a  partridge,  and  I 
wonder  sometimes,"  he  added  with  a  laugh, 
"  whether  she  will  not  fly  off  like  them  and 
never  return." 

"  Ah,  Tonio,  don't  say  that,"  cried  Gigia. 
"  0  Madonna  mia !  I  pray  not.  Ah,  sig- 
nor!  signor!  it  was  once  our  fate,  and  it 
broke  our  hearts.  Her  mother,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  know,"  said  Marco,  sympa 
thetically. 

"  But,"  continued  Gigia,  "  that  is  all  over 
now,  all  but  the  wound  that  never  quite 
heals;  but  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not 
mean  to  bother  you  with  our  troubles.  Every 
one  has  enough  of  his  own,  and  the  Lord 
preserve  you  from  all  evils  of  every  kind  I 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  107 

But,  basta  ;  yes,  I  dare  say  she  is  up  at  the 
cascata" 

"  And  where  is  that?  "  asked  Marco. 

"  Oh,  up  the  valley  there.  You  see  those 
trees  that  shelve  down  on  both  sides  to  a 
deep  defile.  Well,  there  is  a  mountain 
stream  which  pours  down  there,  and  just 
above  is  a  fall  of  water  about  a  mile  up, 
that  we  call  the  cascata.  Fiammetta  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  somewhere  about  there.  I 
am  sorry  she  is  not  at  home.  And  will  you, 
signor,  have  a  glass  of  wine,  or  of  milk,  and 
a  bit  of  cheese.  Our  cheese  is  pretty  good, 
and  the  milk,  if  you  like  milk,  I  can  truly 
recommend.  Pray,  let  me  bring  you  some." 

Marco  thanked  her,  and  accepted  her  of 
fer  ;  and  she  brought  him  a  bowl  of  sweet 
milk,  which  he  drank,  saying,  "  Excellent, 
excellent.  I  never  tasted  better  milk." 

Then  he  lingered  and  chatted  with  them 
a  while,  in  the  hope  that  Fiammetta  might 
return ;  but  he  was  disappointed,  and  after 
waiting  a  good  half  hour,  he  bade  them 
good-by,  saying,  "  Remember  me  to  Fiam 
metta." 

At  first  he  turned  his  footsteps  homeward  ; 
but  after  going  a  little  way  he  stopped, 
thought  a  few  minutes,  and  altered  his  di- 


108  F1AMMETTA. 

rection  towards  the  valley  where  Tonio  told 
him  the  cascata  lay.  Silently  he  made  his 
way  along,  sometimes  hesitating  and  stop 
ping,  and  then  pursuing  his  path,  as  if  he 
could  not  decisively  make  up  his  mind  what 
to  do.  There  was  scarcely  any  definite  road, 
only  here  and  there  were  vestiges  of  paths, 
for  the  most  part  entirely  overgrown  with 
grass,  and  showing  that  but  few  persons  had 
travelled  over  them.  At  last  he  found  his 
way  down  a  steep  slope  of  firs,  on  whose  car 
pet  of  brown  needles  his  foot  fell  softly,  and 
came  upon  a  mountain  torrent  that  was  bub 
bling  and  foaming  down  its  rocky  bed,  and 
finding  its  way  through  massive  boulders,  so 
old  and  huge  that  they  seemed  as  if  they  had 
been  flung  there  by  the  Titans  of  old  in  some 
desperate  contest.  The  beauty  of  the  place 
arrested  him.  High  overhead  towered  on 
either  slope  a  magnificent  growth  of  beeches, 
some  throwing  out  their  branches  over  the 
stream  as  if  in  protection,  and  weaving  a 
tessellated  roof  of  quivering  leaves  against 
the  sky.  Looking  up  the  gorge  into  the  dis 
tance,  there  was  a  deep  dell  of  green,  illu 
minated  by  the  sun,  and  over-canopied  by  a 
mass  of  delicate  foliage,  through  which  the 
light,  piercing  here  and  there,  gleamed  on 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  109 

the  smooth  trunks  of  the  beeches  and  the 
shadows  of  the  leaves  as  they  wavered  to  and 
fro,  and  the  delicate  breeze  played  fitfully 
across  them.  The  boulders  were  crusted  and 
diapered  over  with  cushions  of  variegated 
mosses,  and  against  them  sunlit  ferns  spread 
out  their  traceries  and  printed  their  fingered 
shadows.  Adown  the  shelving  rocks  on 
either  side  clung  and  trailed  in  lush  confu 
sion  a  tangled  growth  of  brambles,  eglantine, 
and  ivy,  whose  groping  sprays,  stretching  out 
for  support,  wavered  to  and  fro  in  the  light 
breeze.  The  banks  were  enamelled  with 
purple,  blue,  and  golden  wild-flowers,  that 
glowed  amid  the  fine  spiring  grasses  and 
broken  brown  earth ;  and  groups  of  bushes 
fringed  here  and  there  4ihe  torrent.  All  was 
silent ;  no  noise  disturbed  the  serenity  of 
the  place,  where  only  was  heard  the  whisper 
of  the  trees  and  the  gurgle  of  the  stream 
as  it  sang  its  low  perpetual  song  over  the 
stones.  Here  and  there  the  clear  waters 
rounded  into  brown  pools  with  pebbled  bot 
toms,  over  which  skated  groups  of  water- 
flies  in  rapid  circles,  and  in  whose  depths 
were  mirrored  the  overhanging  trees  and  the 
still  blue  sky  beyond.  Slender  dragon-flies 
poised  gleaming  over  the  water,  darting  to 


110  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

and  fro  in  the  sunshine  on  their  glassy  iris- 
huecl  wings ;  and  now  and  then  some  little 
bird  fluttered  through  or  rested  to  drink  at 
the  clear  basins,  and  piped  a  little  song  and 
then  vanished.  The  world  and  all  its  vani 
ties  seemed  a  thousand  miles  away,  and  as 
if  it  never  existed. 

Tired  and  hot,  Marco  here  rested,  took 
off  his  hat  to  feel  the  cool  wind  on  his  brow, 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  mossy  stones,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  reverie.  Here  was  peace. 
The  murmurous  sounds  lulled  him,  and  a 
dreamy  sense  of  calm  came  over  him  as  he 
surrendered  himself  up  to  the  influence  of 
the  place,  not  struggling  against  Nature, 
but  yielding  to  her  will  and  gentle  sway, 
and  content  for  the  time  to  live,  even  as  the 
trees  and  flowers. 

Suddenly  he  heard  at  a  short  distance  up 
the  valley,  a  sweet  argentine  voice  singing, 
as  it  were,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  gur 
gling  stream.  It  came  low  and  faint  to  his 
ear,  and  he  could  not  catch  the  words,  but 
the  air  was  one  of  those  natural  melodies 
that  are  so  common  in  Italy  —  a  sweet,  and 
yet  somewhat  melancholy  strain,  with  pro 
longations  of  each  final  note  as  the  line  or 
verse  closed,  and  pauses,  and  then  the  next 


FIAMMETTA.  Ill 

line  taken  up  and  sung.  He  listened  en 
chanted.  Something  there  was  in  it  so  re 
fined,  so  in  harmony  with  the  scene,  that  it 
seemed  like  the  voice  of  Nature  singing  to 
itself,  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  brook  had  taken 
voice  and  was  singing  to  itself.  Who  could 
it  be  ?  What  could  it  be  ?  he  asked  himself, 
and  half  held  his  breath,  fearing  it  would 
come  to  an  end. 

And  so,  after  a  few  minutes,  it  did  ;  and 
the  butterflies  wavered  about,  and  the  insects 
hummed,  and  the  brook  gurgled,  and  the 
trees  rustled,  but  the  voice  and  the  singing 
ceased. 

Curious  to  know  whence  the  song  came, 
he  slowly  advanced  up  the  valley,  keeping 
to  the  watercourse,  stepping  from  stone  to 
stone  across  it,  pausing  at  intervals,  peering 
forward,  and  moving  as  noiselessly  as  he 
could.  At  last  he  came  to  a  sudden  turn  of 
the  brook,  and  through  the  trees  saw  the 
figure  of  a  girl  sitting  on  one  of  the  boulders. 
It  was  Fiammetta.  Hidden  by  the  trees,  he 
was  invisible  to  her,  and  he  stopped  and 
gazed  at  her  as  she  sat  in  the  half  light, 
dappled  with  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  half 
turned  away  from  him,  and  utterly  uncon 
scious  of  the  presence  of  any  human  being. 


112  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

She  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  one  foot  was  dipped  into  the  pool  of 
brown  water  beneath,  into  which  she  was 
looking.  Her  head  was  uncovered,  her  upper 
dress  had  been  loosened,  and  exposed  her 
shoulders  and  bosom,  over  which  fell,  in  long, 
black,  curling  masses,  her  rich  and  beautiful 
hair.  Apparently  she  had  been  bathing,  or, 
perhaps,  secure  of  her  privacy,  and  heated 
by  exercise,  she  had  half  undressed  herself 
to  enjoy  the  coolness  of  the  breeze  and  of  the 
water  ;  and  now,  when  Marco  first  caught 
sight  of  her,  she  was  looking  down  into  the 
water,  lost  in  reverie,  and,  as  it  were,  com 
muning  with  herself. 

Marco  stood  transfixed,  and  gazed  at  her 
for  a  time  in  silence  and  surprise,  taking  in 
the  whole  scene,  —  the  secluded  beauty  of 
the  place,  the  grace  and  perfectness  of  the 
figure,  —  as  if  in  fear  that  he  should  lose 
this  exquisite  picture,  for  picture  it  was  to 
him.  For  a  moment  the  artist  subdued  the 
man.  Imagination  drove  out  all  feeling  of 
personality.  She  was  not  Fiammetta ;  he 
was  not  Marco,  and  he  murmured  to  him 
self,  "  How  beautiful !  It  is  my  naiad,  that 
I  dreamed  of,  but  never  hoped  to  see.  This 
is  the  picture  I  must  paint.  Here  is  my 
summer's  work." 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  113 

Silently  he  gazed,  not  moving,  but  drink 
ing  in  the  whole  scene  ;  striving  to  satiate 
the  thirst  of  his  eyes  and  imagination  ;  fear 
ing  to  lose  anything,  and  impressing  as  well 
as  he  could  on  his  memory  all  its  effect  and 
all  its  detail.  He  stood  there  entranced,  as 
Actaeon  might  have  stood  when  he  suddenly 
surprised  Artemis  and  her  nymph.  But 
Actaeon  was  only  the  hunter  and  the  man ; 
Marco,  for  the  moment,  was  only  the  artist. 

As  he  bent  forward,  a  dead  branch  cracked 
under  his  foot.  Fiammetta  heard  it,  and  in 
stantly  looked  up,  her  large  dark  eyes  search 
ing  the  wood.  Marco  then  advanced,  and 
cried,  "  Fiammetta,  is  that  you  ?  " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  an  instant ;  drew 
her  dress  hurriedly  together,  and  fixed  her 
steady  eyes  on  him  a  moment  in  alarm,  and 
then  she  cried,  "  Oh,  Signor  Conte  !  " 

There  was  no  bashfulness,  no  sense  of  be 
ing  surprised,  no  indication  of  offended  mod 
esty  in  her  reception  of  him.  Why  should 
there  be  ?  She  was  perfectly  innocent,  and 
the  mere  fact  that  her  arms,  bosom,  and  legs 
were  nude,  did  not  carry  with  it  to  her  mind 
any  idea  of  impropriety.  The  legs  and  arms 
of  half  the  girls  that  toiled  over  the  hills 
were  bare  as  hers  were  then.  That  meant 

8 


114  FIAMMETTA. 

nothing,  and  never  had  meant  anything  to 
her  mind,  or  to  the  mind  of  any  of  the  peas 
ants  with  whom  she  lived.  All  such  ideas  are 
merely  the  result  of  habit  and  convention. 

Nor  for  a  moment  did  Marco  attach  any 
significance  to  this.  He  was  an  artist,  and 
he  knew  how  little  nudity  had  to  do  with 
modesty.  All  that  impressed  him  was  her 
singular  beauty  ;  her  correspondence  to  the 
idea  he  had  conceived  of  a  naiad ;  her  per 
fection  as  a  model  for  the  picture  he  desired 
to  paint. 

Nor  was  she  surprised  to  see  him.  All  the 
long  morning  he  had  been  in  her  thoughts ; 
and  remembering  that  he  had  promised  to 
visit  her  grandmother,  she  had  lingered,  con 
trary  to  her  custom,  near  the  house,  lest  if 
he  should  take  a  fancy  to  come  that  day,  she 
might  miss  seeing  him.  But  as  noon  came 
on  and  he  did  not  make  his  appearance,  she 
gave  up  all  hope  of  his  coining,  and  betook 
herself  to  this  spot,  which  was  one  of  her 
favorite  haunts  during  the  summer.  There 
she  had  been  for  an  hour,  listening  to  the 
music  of  the  woods,  and  lost  in  reverie ;  one 
idea  despite  herself  hunting  persistently 
through  her  thoughts,  and  returning  perti 
naciously,  however  she  strove  to  drive  it 


FIAMMETTA.  115 

away.  So  filled  was  her  mind  with  his  im 
age,  that  when  she  looked  up  and  beheld  him 
standing  before  her,  it  scarcely  startled  her. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here,  Fiam- 
metta?  "  at  last  he  said. 

"  Nothing,  Signor  Conte ;  only  dreaming." 

"  Of  what  were  you  dreaming  ?  Of  whom, 
Fiammetta?" 

Then  a  rosy  blush  rushed  into  her  cheeks, 
and  she  was  silent. 

"  Then  you  won't  tell  me  what  you  were 
thinking  of.  It  is  a  secret,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  signor,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  not 
a  secret,  and  it  is  nothing  wrong ;  but  it  is 
not  worth  telling.  I  cannot  tell  you.  Why 
should  you  care  to  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Marco. 
"  I  did  not  mean  anything.  I  did  not  wish 
to  force  your  confidence.  Only  you  seemed 
so  abstracted  that  I  was  curious,  imperti 
nently  perhaps,  to  know  what  so  occupied 
your  thoughts." 

"  I  should  rather  not  tell  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  would  not  understand." 

"  Certainly  ;  don't  tell  me.  Let  me  tell 
you  rather  what  I  was  thinking  of  when  I 
saw  you  here.  But  no  matter ;  perhaps  you 
would  not  understand." 


116  F 1 AM  M ETTA. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  peculiar  expres 
sion,  as  the  thought  passed  suddenly  across 
her  that  as  she  had  been  thinking  of  him,  so 
perhaps  he  had  been  thinking  of  her ;  and 
she  felt  a  certain  thrill  at  the  thought.  But 

O 

what  could  he  have  been  thinking  of  her? 
Then  she  said,  — 

"  Did  you  know  I  was  here,  signor?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  No ;  that  is,  not 
exactly.  I  have  been  to  call  on  your  grand 
mother.  I  promised,  you  know,  to  go  and 
see  her." 

"  Yes,  signor." 

"  And  you  were  not  at  home,  you  know, 
and  I  asked  how  you  were,  and  where  you 
were,  as  I  did  not  see  you ;  and  she  told  me 
you  were  up  here  in  this  direction  —  at  the 
cascata,  as  she  called  the  place.  So  I  strolled 
along  through  the  woods  to  see  what  sort  of 
a  place  it  was  that  you  selected  as  your  fa 
vorite  haunt ;  and,  Fiammetta  —  I  may  call 
you  Fiammetta,  may  I  not  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  "  Why 
not?  that  is  my  name." 

44  But  you  know  that  in  the  city  we  don't 
call  young  ladies  of  your  age  by  their  first 
name,  unless  we  are  old  friends." 

"Don't  you?"   said   she.      "How  odd  I 


FIAMMETTA.  117 

But  I  am  not  a  young  lady,  and  so  it  is  all 
different." 

"  And  as  I  was  saying,"  he  went  on,  "  I 
wandered  in  this  direction  in  the  hope  that 
I  might  see  you." 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  signor.     "Why  ?  " 

"  Ah !  that  is  difficult  to  explain ;  but  I 
did  wish  to  see  you,  and  I  am  very  glad  I 
came.  Yes  ;  very  glad  indeed." 

"  So  am  I,"  she  said,  simply ;  "  that  is,  if 
you  are.  I  did  not  think  you  would  wish  to 
see  me  again." 

"  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  ask  you  why. 
Why  should  not  I  wish  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should,  signor. 
It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so." 

"  Very  kind  of  me  to  say  so  ?  Ah !  I 
don't  see  that.  But  I  mean  what  I  say.  I 
was  afraid  you  would  have  too  long  a  walk 
last  night  and  be  tired ;  and  I  wished  to  as 
sure  myself  that  nothing  had  happened  to 
you.  The  woods  are  so  lonely  at  night,  and 
there  are  dangers  sometimes  to  a  handsome 
girl  like  you,  all  unprotected.  Your  grand 
mother  ought  not  to  allow  you  to  be  out  so 
late  all  alone." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  afraid,  signor.  Nobody 
would  harm  me." 


118  FIAMMETTA. 

"  I  don't  know  that.  You  must  promise 
me  not  to  do  this  any  more." 

"  Why  should  you  care,  signer?" 

"  Well,  I  do  care.  Will  you  make  me 
this  promise  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  ask  me  to  do ;  " 
and  then  she  paused,  and  added  —  "no  mat 
ter  what  it  is." 

"  That  is  having  a  very  great  confidence 
in  me." 

"  Si,  signer." 

"  Why  should  you  have  any  confidence  in 
me?  You  don't  know  me.  You  don't 
know  what  I  might  ask  you  to  do.  I  might 
ask  you  to  do  something  very  wrong." 

"  No,  signor  ;  you  never  would." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  trust  you.  I  don't  know  how  I  know  ; 
but  I  look  in  your  face,  and  I  know.  You 
will  never  tell  me  to  do  anything  wrong. 
You  will  always  be  good  to  me.  I  see  it  — 
I  see  it  as  I  see  that  tree,  and  know  it  is  a 
tree.  I  do  not  need  to  think  about  it.  When 
one  sees  a  thing,  one  sees  it  —  that  is  all.  I 
shall  never  more  believe  in  anybody  or  any 
thing,  if  I  am  deceived  in  this." 

"  My  dear  Fiammetta !  "  he  said,  for  he 
was  touched  by  this  utter  confidence  ;  "  you 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  119 

are  right.  You  may  trust  me.  I  will  never 
ask  you  to  do  anything  that  is  wrong.  I 
promise  you  that." 

He  had  seated  himself  on  the  grass  at  her 
feet,  and  she  had  resumed  her  place  on  the 
boulder.  As  he  said  these  last  words  he 
looked  up  in  her  face,  and  she  looked  down 
at  him.  There  was  something  singularly 
winning  in  this  child's  simplicity,  he  thought. 
She  was  seventeen.  She  was  still  a  child  in 
many  things,  and  her  eyes  seemed  filled  with 
deep  still  radiance,  and  were  suffused  by  a 
tearlike  gleam  as  she  looked  at  him.  A 
thousand  unspoken  vague  presentiments  and 
feelings  and  impulses  stirred  in  him,  and  a 
tender  strange  interest  drew  him  to  her. 
Something  had  grown  up  between  them  sud 
denly  ;  without  speech,  or  hidden  within 
their  speech,  and  made  manifest  only  by 
tones  and  looks,  and  that  subtle  influence  of 
one  soul  over  another  which  we  call  magnet 
ism. 

He  said  nothing ;  but  leaning  over,  bent 
down  his  eyes  and  plucked  the  spires  of 
grass,  and  she  looked  vaguely  into  the 
water.  It  was  only  a  moment's  silence,  but 
it  might  have  been  an  hour  for  all  she 
knew  ;  and  when  he  again  spoke,  it  was  as 


120  FIAMMETTA. 

if  she  had  been  far,  far  away  on  a  vague 
journey,  and  now  was  recalled  home. 

"Fiammetta,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you.  Will  you  grant  it?  " 

"  I  will  if  I  can,  signor,  and  gladly. 
What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be  my  model  —  my 
naiad." 

"  What  is  that,  signor  ?  "  she  said  ;  and 
she  trembled,  not  knowing  what  he  meant. 

"  A  naiad,"  he  answered,  "  is  the  protect 
ing  spirit  of  the  stream,  the  torrent,  the 
brook.  They  do  not  exist  except  in  fable  ; 
but  they  none  the  less  live  in  the  heart  of  all 
who  love  nature,  as  you  do." 

"  Oh  yes,  signor.  I  love  nature  ;  I  love 
everything  in  nature  —  the  birds,  the  flow 
ers,  the  insects,  the  trees,  the  brooks.  Ah, 
yes!  most  of  all  I  love  the  brooks.  They 
talk  to  me  forever  ;  they  tell  me  I  know  not 
what ;  and  I  listen  and  listen  for  hours  to 
them,  and  wonder  what  they  are  saying, 
that  is  so  fine,  so  far,  so  sweet.  Tell  me 
more  about  these  spirits.  Are  they  saints  ?  " 

"  No,  not  what  we  mean  by  saints.  The 
ancient  people  who  used  to  live  here  and  in 
Greece,  long,  long  centuries  ago,  loved  and 
worshipped  nature,  and  they  imagined  that 


FIAMMETTA.  121 

there  were  spirits  and  gentle  creatures  who 
guarded  and  protected  the  trees  and  the 
mountains  and  the  brooks.  They  were 
beautiful  and  immortal,  and  were  sometimes 
seen  by  mortals.  The  guardians  of  the 
mountains  were  called  oreads,  and  those  of 
the  trees  dryads,  and  those  of  the  brooks 
naiads." 

"  I  think  these  old  people  were  right.  I 
sometimes  think  I  see  such  creatures  —  such 
spirits  —  and  I  know  I  hear  them  at  times 
in  the  mountains  while  I  am  roaming  alone 
—  in  the  trees  when  they  are  talking  with 
the  winds  —  in  the  brooks,  too.  Ah,  yes  ! 
in  the  brooks,  certainly.  Listen  to  this  now, 
signer,  and  tell  me  what  it  says.  Something 
it  says.  And  then,  again,  I  hear  them 
shriek  when  the  great  trees  are  struck  by 
the  axe.  Ah !  it  sounds  so  cruel  that  ring 
of  the  axe  ;  and  when  with  a  crash  they  fall 
to  the  earth,  that  is  always  horrible  to  me. 
I  pray  them  to  save  the  trees ;  but  they 
laugh  at  me.  Perhaps  they  are  right ;  but 
it  hurts  me  to  hear  a  tree  fall." 

"  Those  that  you  hear  shrieking  when  the 
trees  fall  are  the  dryads.  But  what  I  want 
you  to  be  is  a  naiad,  the  spirit  of  the  brook 
—  of  this  very  brook." 


122  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  want  me 
to  do ;  but  I  will  do  it  if  I  can." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  A  year  ago  I  made  a 
sketch  of  a  naiad  sitting  on  a  mossy  boulder 
over  a  torrent,  that  foamed  along  as  this 
does.  It  was  the  spirit  that  protected  the 
torrent ;  and  it  sat  there,  dreaming  and  gaz 
ing  into  just  such  a  brown,  shallow,  pebbly 
mirror  of  water  as  this.  It  was  only  a 
sketch,  but  it  pleased  one  of  my  dearest 
friends ;  and  when  I  was  coming  awaj7  from 
Rome  he  said,  c  Take  that  sketch  with  you, 
and  paint  it,  or  something  like  it,  this  sum 
mer  from  nature.  There  you  will  find  your 
inspiration,  and  your  mountain  torrents  will 
give  you  your  facts.  What  you  will  not 
find,  I  am  afraid,  is  your  naiad.  That,  in 
deed,  will  be  difficult ;  but  seek  for  her.' 
Well,  I  promised,  and  came  away,  and  since 
then  I  have  not  thought  of  it  until  to-day  — 
until  an  hour  ago  —  I  came  up  the  valley  in 
search  of  you,  as  I  told  you,  but  I  found 
you  not ;  and  at  last,  tired  and  hot,  I  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  rocks  below,  just  out  of 
sight,  never  imagining  that  you  were  near 
me.  As  I  was  sitting  there,  I  heard  your 
voice  singing  up  the  defile,  and  I  rose  and 
came  forward  ;  and  I  saw  you  sitting  here, 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  123 

half  in  sun  and  half  in  shade,  with  the 
brook  beneath  you,  and  the  trees  above  you ; 
and  I  cried  out  to  myself,  with  a  pang  of 
pleasure,  '  Ah !  there  is  my  naiad.  Fiam- 
metta  shall  be  my  naiad,  and  this  shall  be 
the  stream  which  she  presides  over  and  pro 
tects.'  Now,  Fiammetta,  will  you  be  my 
naiad  ?  Will  you  be  my  model,  and  let 
me  paint  this  beautiful  place,  and  you  sit 
ting  on  the  rocks  and  guarding  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  must  sit  there 
then  and  let  you  paint  me.  Will  it  take  a 
long  time  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  am  afraid  it  will,  and  I  shall 
have  to  ask  you  to  come  here  a  good  many 
mornings.  Will  it  bore  you  very  much  ?  I 
will  do  it  as  fast  as  I  can,  and  I  shall  count 
it  a  very  great  favor." 

"  Oh,  signer  ;  is  that  all  ?  Ah,  that  will 
never  bore  me.  No,  no !  But  I  am  afraid 
I  am  not  fit  to  serve  you  as  a  model." 

"  Ah  well ;  leave  that  to  me.  I  am  satis 
fied.  I  want  nothing  different  from  you  — 
if  I  can  only  make  you  as  you  are." 

"And  then  I  shall  be  with  you  all  the 
mornings  —  every  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  all  the  mornings,  if  you  will." 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  wiU,  certainly." 


124  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Tell  your  grandmother  I  want  you,  and 
tell  her  all  about  it.  I  do  not  think  she  will 
object.  And  as  for  all  the  time  you  lose  in 
sitting  to  me,  I  will  make  that  all  right  to 
her." 

"Signor!" 

"  Certainly.  I  have  no  right  to  take  up 
your  time." 

"  If  you  say  that  again,  signer,  I  will  not 
come  at  all !  "  And  she  stood  up,  and  a  fire 
flashed  out  of  her  eyes.  Then  she  turned 
away,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Fiammetta,  Fiammetta  mia  ! "  said 
Marco,  "  have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  think  you  could  say  that,"  she 
answered.  "  I  will  not  be  bought  by  any 
body.  I  will  come  for  you  if  you  wish  for 
me,  freely,  without  recompense,  or  I  will  not 
come  at  all.  Nothing,  nothing  on  earth  shall 
induce  me  to  take  money  for  it.  Oh,  signer, 
signer,  how  you  have  mortified  me ! "  and 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Marco  was  quite  taken  aback.  He  came 
forward  to  her,  took  her  hands  in  his,  looked 
in  her  face,  and  said,  "  I  am  sorry,  Fiam 
metta  ;  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you.  Pray 
do  not  cry.  Forgive  me !  I  will  take  you 
freely,  as  you  offer  yourself,  and  thank  you 


FIAMMETTA.  125 

from  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  Fiammetta, 
look  at  me,  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

She  smiled  at  him  through  her  tears.  The 
brief  thunderstorm  went  by,  and  the  sun 
shone  out  over  her  face. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  signor.  You 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  me ;  but  you  did  hurt 
me.  Let  us  think  no  more  about  it.  It  is 
past.  When  shall  I  come  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  begin  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"And  at  what  hour?" 

"  Let  me  see  —  it  is  now  six  o'clock.  The 
shadows  are  getting  too  long  and  deep  in  this 
valley.  Let  us  say  two  o'clock,  and  then  I 
shall  have  the  light  I  had  when  I  first  saw 
you,  and  it  will  give  me  time  to  draw  in  the 
general  outline  and  mass.  I  shall  perhaps 
come  earlier,  so  as  to  begin  and  not  to 
trouble  you  so  long." 

"  I  told  you  it  was  no  trouble,  signor.  I 
always  speak  the  truth.  Whatever  else  I 
am,  I  am  sincere.  I  do  not  like  lies." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  yet  what  a  bore  it 
is  to  sit  for  one's  picture." 

"  No,  signor ;  but  I  don 't  think  it  will  be 
to  me  —  to  you  it  may  be." 

"  Certainly  not  to  me,"  said  Marco,  with 
a  laugh.  "  Most  certainly  not  to  me,  as  long 
as  you  are  my  model." 


126  F I  AM M  ETTA. 

So  it  was  agreed,  and  as  the  sun  was  west 
ering,  and  Marco  had  a  long  walk  before 
him,  he  said  good-by. 

"  Do  you  know  your  shortest  way  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Pretty  well.     I  think  I  can  find  it." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  and  show  you  —  a 
little  way  at  least  —  if  you  have  no  objection. 
I  can  show  you  a  short  cut." 

"  Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.  It  is 
on  your  way  home,  is  it  not  ?  " 

44  Part  of  the  way  it  is." 

So  they  walked  along  together  for  a  little 
distance,  and  said  little,  both  occupied  with 
their  own  thoughts.  At  last  Fiammetta  said, 
—  "  I  have  been  thinking,  signor,  that  you 
will  have  things  to  bring  over  to-morrow  to 
work  with,  a  bag,  perhaps,  that  it  will 
trouble  you  to  carry.  Shall  I  come  over  and 
carry  them  for  you  ?  " 

44  Good  gracious !  Fiammetta,  what  are 
you  thinking  of?  Do  you  suppose  I  would 
let  you  carry  my  things  for  me  ?  " 

44 1  am  very  strong,  signor,  though  perhaps 
you  do  not  think  so.  I  can  carry  them  all 
on  my  head." 

44  My  dear  Fiammetta,  I  would  not  have 
you  do  it  for  the  world.  No  !  no  !  no !  and 


FIAMMETTA.  127 

a  thousand  times  no !  I  should  be  ashamed 
to  do  such  a  thing ;  all  the  same  I  thank  you 
for  your  kind  thought.  I  will  bring  them 
all  over  on  the  donkey.  That  will  be  best." 

"  As  you  will,  signor,"  said  she,  humbly. 

"  You  know  I  thank  you  all  the  same." 

"  Yes,  signor ;  but  I  should  have  liked  to 
carry  them  for  you." 

At  a  turning  of  the  valley  Fiammetta 
pointed  out  to  Marco  his  way.  And  they 
shook  hands. 

"  We  are  friends.  You  have  forgiven  me 
really  ?  "  said  he. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  smiled,  and  they 
parted. 

"  A  strange  girl,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
walked  along ;  "so  simple,  so  sensitive,  so 
fiery,  so  gentle.  I  wonder  what  Carlo  would 
say  to  all  this?" 

She  walked  slowly  home,  and  said  nothing 
to  herself.  What  was  there  to  say?  She 
did  not  yet  quite  know  what  it  all  meant ; 
but  she  was  none  the  less  aware  that  the 
twilight  air  was  different,  and  that  all  the 
world  had  changed.  Faithful  to  her  word, 
she  told  her  grandmother  all  that  had  oc 
curred,  and  her  grandmother  made  no  objec 
tion  to  her  sitting  to  Marco  as  his  model. 


128  FIAMMETTA. 

"  But  you  must  dress  yourself  differently, 
child,"  she  said,  "  and  tie  up  your  hair  neatly, 
and  put  on  your  best  frock  and  shoes.  It 
will  never  do  to  go  looking  as  you  do  now." 

"  He  did  not  say  so,"  said  Fiammetta. 
"No,  Nonna,  I  shall  wear  the  same  old 
things,  until  he  tells  me  to  change  them. 
He  knows  what  he  wants,  and  we  do  not." 

"  Very  well,"  said  her  grandmother,  "  do 
as  you  think  best  for  to-morrow  ;  but  you 
know  you  do  look  like  a  fright  in  that  old 
dress." 

"  He  did  not  say  so,"  she  repeated. 

"  Of  course  he  did  n't.  He  did  not  like 
to.  But  do  you  ask  him  to-morrow." 

"  Yes ;  I  will  do  that,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  next  morning  Marco  busied  himself 
in  arranging  for  his  picture.  He  unrolled 
his  canvas  and  fastened  it  on  its  stretcher, 
looked  carefully  over  all  his  colors  and 
brushes,  and  saw  that  all  was  in  order. 
Then  he  took  from  his  portfolio  the  sketch, 
and  examined  it,  and  pondered  it  long.  "  It 
is  curious,"  he  thought ;  "  this  sketch  seems 
to  prefigure  the  very  spot  and  the  very  scene 
of  yesterday,  and  even  the  figure  of  the 
naiad  is  not  unlike  that  of  Fiammetta.  Al 
most  it  seems  as  if  it  were,  as  they  say,  a 
sort  of  second-sight,  or  foresight,  such  as  one 
sometimes  has  in  dreams.  I  suppose  Fate 
willed  that  I  should  paint  this  picture. 
After  all,  how  little,  with  all  our  preten 
sions,  we  order  the  events  of  our  life.  A 
secret  power  seems  to  drive  us  along  the 
predestined  path  we  are  to  tread,  and 
whether  we  will  or  not  we  must  take  it.  A 
good  genius  or  a  bad  genius  leads  us  where 
we  are  to  go ;  and  since  we  cannot  refuse  its 


130  F1AMMETTA. 

leading,  how  are  we  responsible?  It  is  a 
comfortable  philosophy,  at  all  events,  to  be 
lieve  this.  How  can  we  prearrange  the 
course  our  life  is  to  take  ?  Willy,  nilly,  we 
go  as  we  are  directed." 

Then  he  sat  and  thought  of  Fiammetta  — 
not  so  much  of  her  as  she  really  was,  but  as 
he  intended  her  to  be  in  his  picture  ;  how 
he  should  pose  her,  what  her  dress  should 
be  —  "  Well,  we  will  leave  that  to  chance," 
he  thought,  "  or  what  we  call  chance.  I  will 
let  her  alone — to  take  what  attitude  she 
chooses.  I  have  a  feeling  that  she  and  Na 
ture  will  arrange  all  that  for  me  better  than 
I  can  arrange  it  for  myself." 

"Let  me  see  whether  I  have  everything 
—  easel,  charcoal,  oil,  turpentine,  canvas, 
brushes,  palette  -  knife,  pocket  -  knife,  rags. 
Stop,  let  me  see.  I  had  better  find  another 
rag.  This  is  too  much  soiled."  So  saying, 
he  went  to  his  drawer  to  see  if  he  could 
find  any  ;  and  turning  its  contents  over,  he 
came  upon  a  little  box,  which  he  opened. 
"  Corals !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  just  the 
thing.  Now,  see  what  chance  does.  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  this.  I  will 
put  it  on  her  neck  ;  and  she  shall  have  it  to 
keep,  after  she  has  ceased  to  be  my  naiad, 
for  remembrance." 


FIAMMETTA.  131 

Having  arranged  everything,  he  called 
Pietro  and  told  him  he  was  going  out  to 
paint  a  picture  up  near  the  Casetta,  "  and 
as  I  cannot  carry  all  these  things  myself," 
he  said,  "I  must  have  the  donkey;  so  get 
him  ready  at  once."  So  Pietro  put  the 
great  heavy  saddle  on  the  donkey,  and  all 
the  things  were  piled  upon  it  and  safely  se 
cured. 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?  "  said  Pietro. 

"  No  ;  I  shall  manage  it  very  well  alone." 

And  off  he  set.  The  way  was  long,  the 
day  was  hot,  and  what  with  stoppages  to 
breathe  and  cool  himself,  it  was  a  good  hour 
and  a  half  before  he  arrived.  But  there 
was  Fiammetta  waiting  for  him. 

"  Ah,  you  are  here  before  me,"  he  cried. 

"  I  have  been  here  an  hour,  signor." 

"  Bah,  how  hot  I  am !  "  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  flung  himself  down  on  the  grass.  "  It 's 
a  long  pull,  Fiammetta." 

"  Lie  down  and  rest,"  said  she,  "  and  I 
will  look  after  the  donkey  and  take  off  all 
the  things.  Leave  all  that  to  me,  signor." 

"  No,  no !  I  will  do  it  myself  in  a  few 
minutes  ;  there  is  no  hurry." 

"  No,  signor ;  you  must  let  me  do  it.  I 
am  used  to  it.  Please  let  me  do  it." 


132  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

He  consented,  and  lay  on  the  grass  and 
watched  her  as  she  moved  about,  and 
thought  how  deftly  she  did  it  all,  and  how 
graceful  she  was.  Every  now  and  then  she 
turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Is  that  right  ?  " 
and  smiled.  And  he  smiled  back  and  said, 
"All  right."  It  was  a  pleasure  to  them 
both  —  to  him  to  be  waited  on  and  cared 
for  ;  to  her  to  wait  upon  him.  It  seemed  to 
bring  them  nearer  together,  and  to  be  some 
how  or  other  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world. 

"  And  the  donkey,"  she  said,  after  she  had 
unloaded  him.  "  I  think  we  will  tie  him  up 
in  the  woods  ;  he  will  find  enough  to  browse 
on  there." 

We  will  tie  him  up  —  we,  not  I.  That 
little  word  seemed  to  make  them  one. 

"  Yes ;  that  will  be  best,"  said  he. 

She  led  him  away,  was  gone  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  returned. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "  it  is  very  pleas 
ant  to  be  waited  upon  by  you,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  little,  signor,  that  I  can  do." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  little  or  much, 
but  it  is  very  pleasant.  I  should  like  to  be 
here  all  day  and  look  at  you  moving  about 
me.  I  've  a  great  mind  to  do  nothing  else, 


FIAMMETTA.  133 

but  let  you  do  all  there  is  to  do.  It  is  so 
delightful  to  be  lazy  and  to  have  one's  work 
done  for  one,  when  it  is  done  so  prettily  and 
kindly.  You  shall  take  the  canvas  and  the 
brushes  and  paint  for  me." 

"Ah!  I  think  so,"  she  said.  And  she 
laughed  a  merry  and  musical  laugh,  and 
seemed  much  amused  at  the  idea.  "  I  wish 
I  could." 

"  Suppose  you  should  try." 

"  I  try  ?  Nonsense,  signor ;  you  are  laugh 
ing  at  me." 

"  No  ;  I  am  laughing  with  you.  It  is  de 
lightful,  perfectly  delightful  here.  I  don't 
think  we  should  better  do  any  work;  it 
seems  a  foolish  thing  to  work.  The  trees 
do  not  work ;  the  flowers  do  not  work.  Man 
is  the  only  creature  that  works ;  all  other 
things  and  creatures  play." 

"  The  bees  and  the  ants,  signor." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  and  I  hate  them  for  it.  Why 
do  they  keep  up  such  an  everlasting  work 
ing,  setting  such  a  bad  example  to  us  all  ? 
I  think  the  Evil  One  invented  work;  and 
his  children  are  the  bees  and  the  ants  and 
the  flies,  though  these  last  do  not  work ; 
they  are  only  made  to  irritate  and  provoke 
us,  little  black  messengers  of  Satan,  I  think. 


134  F 1 AM M ETTA. 

Let  us  do  no  work  to-day ;  let  us  sit  and 
talk." 

"As  you  please,  signor.  I  am  satisfied, 
if  you  are." 

"  Well,  I  am  thoroughly  satisfied.  You 
were  not  born  for  work,  Fiammetta.  You 
were  made  to  be  beautiful  and  graceful,  and 
to  live  like  the  flowers,  and  to  be  happy,  and 
to  be  without  care." 

"  Ah !  I  don't  think  that,  signor.  Nonna 
don't  think  so,  at  all  events."  And  she 
laughed  gayly. 

"  Ah,  but  your  Nonna  does  not  know  you 
as  well  as  I  do  !  " 

"  Not  as  well  as  you  do  ?  Why,  you  have 
only  seen  me  twice,  and  Nonna  has  known 
me  all  my  life." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  We  do  not 
rightly  see  persons  or  things  when  they  are 
too  near  us  ;  and  then  your  Nonna  sees  you 
through  such  different  spectacles.  Have  you 
ever  seen  what  is  called  a  Claude  glass  ?  " 

"  No,  signor ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  glass  with  various  colored  discs, 
that  all  open  and  shut  as  one  chooses.  Here 
is  one.  Now  look  at  the  landscape  through 
this  slide  "  (and  he  opened  one).  "  Do  you 
see?  It  is  all  purple,  is  it  not?  And  now 


FIAMMETTA.  135 

through  this,  it  is  all  yellow  and  golden; 
and  now  through  this,  it  is  all  obscured  and 
dark." 

"  So  it  is,  signor  ;  how  strange  !  Every 
thing  changes  as  I  change  the  glasses  ;  every 
thing  is  the  same,  but  so  different.  I  sup 
pose  Nonna  sees  me  through  the  dark  glass, 
you  would  say." 

"Yes,  and  I  see  you  through  the  yellow 
one ;  and  I  see  you  more  clearly,  and  there 
is  about  you  a  golden  haze  and  glory." 

"  So  there  is  about  you,  signor.  When  I 
look  at  you  through  this  glass  your  hair  is 
all  gold,  and  you  look  as  St.  John  looks  in 
the  picture  over  the  altar  in  the  church." 

"  Well,  Fiammetta,  always  look  at  me 
through  that  glass  if  you  can,  and  see  me 
not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  ought  to  be.  Ah,  well, 
all  things  are  as  they  seem,  and  not  as  they 
are,  and  we  need  these  Claude  glasses  in 
life." 

"  Not  those  who  love,  signor ;  not  the 
poets,  to  them  life  is  always  beautiful  —  al 
ways  glorious.  They  do  not  see  things  as 
others  do." 

"  Sometimes  they  see  them  all  in  mourn 
ing —  sad,  obscure,  dismal." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  when  death  and  sorrow  and 
despair  blacken  everything." 


136  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  Well,  we  won't  let  any  glass  blacken  life 
for  us  to-day,  Fiammetta.  Let  us  enjoy 
what  we  have.  Nature  is  very  kind,  and 
there  is  beauty  everywhere  if  we  choose  to 
see  it,  so  let  us  choose  to  see  it." 

"  We  cannot  always  — however  we  choose," 
said  Fiammetta.  "  We  are  sometimes  pow 
erless  and  helpless,  and  we  have  to  cry,  for 
all  we  wish  for  slips  away  from  us,  and 
everything  comes  wrong  to  us,  and  we  are 
afraid  sometimes  to  enjoy  even  what  we 
have,  and  we  do  not  know  how  long  even 
what  we  own  will  be  ours  to  keep,  and  then 
we  do  not  always  dare  to  be  as  happy  as  we 
are.  There  is  always  a  fear  in  our  happi 
ness  ;  it  may  be  a  temptation,  it  may  be  a 
wrong ;  and  then  when  we  feel  sure,  some 
times  our  light  suddenly  goes  out  and  leaves 
us  in  the  dark,  and  we  go  stumbling  about 
and  hurt  ourselves,  and  then  everything 
seems  the  worse  and  the  darker,  because  of 
the  light  that  we  had." 

Marco  looked  at  her  with  surprise  as  she 
said  this,  and  did  not  reply.  There  was  a 
depth  of  feeling  in  this  utterance  of  hers 
that  silenced  him.  He  had  opened  a  hum 
ble  door,  and  had  a  glimpse  into  a  world  of 
emotions  unsuspected  by  him.  His  hand 


F1AMMETTA.  137 

had  carelessly  swept  the  strings  of  what 
seemed  but  a  humble,  unresponsive  instru 
ment,  and  he  was  startled  by  the  sweet,  pa 
thetic  vibration  that  followed.  She  had 
never  spoken  so  long  a  sentence  before.  As 
yet,  in  all  her  intercourse  with  him,  her 
spirit  had  only,  as  it  were,  hopped  from 
branch  to  branch;  now  suddenly  it  had 
taken  wing,  and  lifted  to  a  longer  flight  into 
the  sky. 

After  a  pause  Fiammetta  continued,  — 
"  Ah,  signor,  to  such  as  you  life  always 
smiles.  If  you  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left  it  is  sunlight.  You  can  do  as  you  please, 
and  go  where  you  please,  and  live  as  you 
please.  When  you  are  weary  of  the  moun 
tains  and  the  trees  and  the  solitudes,  as  you 
will  be  soon,  you  can  go  away  to  the  city,  to 
the  sea  —  anywhere,  everywhere,  all  the 
world  is  before  you  —  you  are  free.  I  am 
here  like  a  caged  bird ;  no  matter  what  I 
wish,  no  matter  what  I  long  for,  here  I  am, 
and  here  I  must  stay,  whether  I  sing  my 
song  gayly  or  pine  and  fret  against  the  bars." 

"  But  you  are  happy,  Fiammetta,  are  you 
not,  to  live  this  life  ?  You  would  not  ex 
change  it  for  another,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  want,  I  know  so 


138  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

little,  I  have  seen  so  little.  Yes,  I  have 
always  been  happy  here.  If  it  could  all  be 
always  as  it  is  now  ;  if  I  was  sure  of  myself 
or  of  anything.  But  this  is  silly.  Yes,  sig- 
nor,  I  am  happy  now.  How  could  any  one 
help  being  happy  such  a  day  as  this  ?  Hap 
piness,  I  suppose,  is  in  ourselves,  not  in  the 
accidents  of  life  and  fortune,  not  in  where 
we  are,  but  in  what  we  are.  Sometimes  I 
am  happy,  I  know  not  why  ;  sometimes  I 
am  unhappy,  I  know  not  why.  Now  I  am 
happy.  Everybody  is  kind  to  me,  and  even 
you  are  kind,  who  have  no  reason  to  be." 

"  On  the  contrary,  't  is  you  that  are  kind 
to  me." 

"  Ah !  that  of  course.  How  could  I  help 
that  ?  That  is  different." 

"  You  might,  you  know,  if  you  chose. 
When  I  whistled  you  might  say, '  I  hear  you, 
but  I  won't  come.'  But  you  see  you  have 
kindly  offered  to  do  me  a  great  favor.  Some 
girls  would  have  refused." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  nobody,  like  me, 
could  refuse." 

"  No  I  nobody  like  you,  perhaps  ;  but  very 
few  are  like  you,  in  any  way." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  odd ;  at  least  Nonna 
tells  me  so  constantly.  But  she  does  not  un- 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  139 

derstand  me,  and  we  think  so  differently 
about  everything.  But  that  is  very  natural. 
She  wishes  me  to  —  but  this  cannot  interest 
you,  signer.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  all  this.  I  don't  know  why  I 
did." 

"  You  knew  I  should  sympathize  with  you ; 
that  is  the  reason." 

"  I  suppose  it  is." 

And  again  there  was  a  silence,  and  Marco 
shut  his  eyes  and  fell  to  dreaming,  and  she 
sat  still  and  looked  into  the  sky. 

"  Hark !  "  said  Marco  suddenly,  and  lift 
ing  up  his  hand,  "  there  is  the  nightingale." 
And  they  listened,  as  a  gush  of  low  liquid 
notes  came  from  the  woods. 

"  He  is  a  late  lover,"  said  Marco,  as  the 
song  ceased.  "  I  thought  all  the  nightingales 
had  told  their  love-tale  before  now,  and 
become  demure  and  silent  like  married  men. 
I  have  not  heard  one  before  for  several 
days." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  the  cuckoo  has  gone, 
and  only  now  and  then  we  shall  hear  the 
nightingale  now  ;  but  the  chaffinch  has  come, 
and  he  will  stay  with  us  all  summer,  and  the 
woods  never  want  for  music  here.  There  is 
the  fringuello" 


140  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  ;  "  but  there  is  nothing 
like  the  nightingale.  None  sing  the  strong, 
passionate  thrilling  note  of  love  that  he  pours 
forth  to  the  world.  Others  warble  their 
love  ;  but  his  full  soul  is  prodigally  lavished 
in  his  strain,  without  reserve  or  stint.  Hark  ! 
there  he  is  again.  Who  could  resist  such 
love-making  as  that  ?  " 

"  Ah,  signor,  he  only  sings  his  love  while 
he  is  young,  and  when  the  spring  is  here, 
and  the  early  summer,  and  he  sings  it  all  out 
then,  and  has  nothing  more  to  say.  But  the 
fringuello  sings  better  and  better  as  he  grows 
older.  His  love  lasts,  and  when  he  is  old  he 
sings  his  best.  There  are  very  few  men  and 
women  who  do  that.  And  more,  signor,  if 
you  catch  the  fringuello^  and  put  out  his 
eyes,  and  prison  him  in  a  cage,  he  sings  per 
haps  then  better  than  ever  ;  and  cruel  people 
do  this,  and  they  make  out  of  his  pain  and 
privation  their  pleasure.  It  makes  my  heart 
sick  to  think  of  it,  and  they  are  so  pretty 
too,  the  fringuelli,  and  they  turn  all  their 
pain  and  sorrow  into  song." 

"Like  the  poets,  Fiammetta.  One  of 
them  says,  '  And  learn  in  suffering  what 
they  teach  in  song.'  You  are  fond  of  birds, 
Fiammetta,  so  I  am  told." 


FIAMMETTA.  141 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  Maria ;  and  she  says  that  you  can  charm 
them.  Do  it  now,  won't  you,  for  me  ?  " 

"  Please,  some  other  time,  signor.  I  must 
be  in  the  mood,  and  I  am  not  now." 

"  Oh,  when  you  will,  then.  You  are  fond 
of  birds?" 

"  I  am  fond  of  all  animals.  They  are 
faithful ;  they  return  your  kindness ;  they 
do  not  quarrel  with  you,  even  when  you 
wrong  them,  and  we  are  always  doing  them 
wrong ;  and  besides  they  are  grateful  and 
patient  and  forgiving;  and  there  is  some 
thing  in  their  eyes,  signor,  that  is  in  no  hu 
man  eyes.  How  shall  I  say  it  ?  appealing, 
pathetic  —  more  than  that  —  sympathetic. 
They  are  always  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  cannot 
understand  them.  They  seem  always  wish 
ing  to  tell  me  something." 

Fiammetta  had  risen  as  she  was  speaking, 
and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro,  and  Marco 
lay  watching  her.  After  a  moment  she 
sprang  to  the  centre  of  the  torrent,  and 
seated  herself  on  one  of  the  great  boulders, 
in  an  attitude  so  free,  so  naive,  so  graceful 
and  natural,  that  Marco  cried  out  to  her, 
"  Don't  move,  Fiammetta !  Stay  just  as  you 
are.  Don't  move  !  " 


142  FIAMMETTA. 

"No,  signer;  I  will  not." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  made  a  hasty 
sketch  of  her  precisely  as  she  was.  And 
she  sat  perfectly  still  and  silent,  as  if  she 
feared  to  move.  He,  too,  was  so  busy  that 
he  did  not  speak ;  and  a  half  hour  flew  by 
to  him  as  if  it  were  a  minute.  Then,  sud 
denly,  it  came  over  him  that  he  was  keeping 
her  too  long  fixed  in  one  attitude,  and  he 
said,  — 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  tired  you.  Move 
now." 

"  I  can  sit  still  longer  if  you  wish,"  she 
said,  though  she  was  really  rigid  with  keep 
ing  motionless  for  such  a  length  of  time. 

"  No,  no !  Move  now  ;  I  have  done  all 
that  is  necessary.  Would  you  like  to  see 
it?" 

"May  I?" 

"  Certainly  ;  it  is  nothing  yet,  but  it  will 
do  me  a  good  service." 

She  came  over  to  him  and  looked  at  the 
sketch.  "  Oh,  that  is  beautiful !  "  she  said. 
"  Too  beautiful  for  me.  I  only  wish  I 
looked  like  that !  " 

"  But  you  do  ;  only  this  does  not  do  you 
justice.  This  is  only  a  sketch.  Wait  till  I 
have  painted  you  really." 


F1AMMETTA.  143 

"  Does  it  look  like  me  to  you  ?  " 

44  Yes,  a  little ;  only  it  does  not  do  you 
justice,  as  I  told  you.  You  know  you  are  a 
great  deal  more  beautiful  than  that." 

44  Oh,  no,  no  !  but  I  am  glad  I  look  any 
thing  like  that  to  you." 

"  To  me  !     You  do  to  everybody." 

44 1  don't  care  for  everybody.  I  only  care 
for  what  persons  whom  I  like  think." 

44  Then  you  do  like  me?  Thank  you,  Fi- 
ammetta.  I  think  we  shall  get  on  together 
very  well." 

She  turned  very  red,  and  said  nothing. 
He  examined  his  sketch,  and  his  mind  was 
far  off  from  her  personally.  He  was  think 
ing  how  this  figure  would  come  into  his  pic 
ture  and  compare  with  the  rest  of  the  scene ; 
and  he  glanced  from  it  to  the  brook  and  the 
rocks  and  the  trees,  utterly  lost  to  her. 
Then  he  said  to  himself,  44  Yes  ;  I  think  that 
will  do,"  and  laid  it  down,  and  took  out 
his  watch. 

44  Per  Bacco  !  how  the  time  goes  ! "  he 
cried  ;  44 1  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  If  I 
am  to  do  anything  to-day,  I  must  begin  at 
once."  And  he  busied  himself  in  selecting 
the  exact  point  of  view  he  should  take. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Fiammetta  ?  "  he 


144  FIAMMETTA. 

said.  "  Does  it  look  best  from  this  point? 
Look !  come  here  —  just  where  I  am. 
There,  what  do  you  say?  or  here?  —  per 
haps  this  is  the  best.  The  trees  come  in 
better  from  here,  don't  they  ?  what  do  you 
think?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  she  ;  but 
delighted  that  he  should  ask  her  opinion. 
"  Both  seem  right  to  me." 

"  But  what  do  you  think  is  best  ?  I  in 
cline  to  think  this  is." 

"  So  do  I,  signor."  She  would  have  said 
the  same  had  he  chosen  the  other  view. 
But  whatever  he  thought,  she  thought. 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  choose  this.  Come, 
Fiammetta,  help  me  place  the  easel  just 
here.  Yes ;  that  is  right.  Now  for  the  box 
of  colors,"  and  he  settled  himself  down  to 
sketch  in  the  place  on  the  canvas  in  outline. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  sit  there  again  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  No  ;  that  is  not  necessary  yet.  Amuse 
yourself ;  I  won't  bore  you  any  longer  now." 

"  May  I  look  at  you  while  you  work?  " 

"  Certainly.  We  will  make  an  artist  of 
you,  Fiammetta.  You  never  tried  to  paint, 
did  you?" 

"  Who  ?     I  ?     Oh,  signor !     I  —  never." 


FIAMMETTA.  145 

"  Well,  everybody  has  to  begin.  So  you 
will  see  how  it  is  done  :  an  outline  in  char 
coal,  see,  first ;  and  then  we  will  use  the  col 
ors.  The  outline  first,  so  as  to  see  that  all 
the  parts  come  in  to  the  canvas." 

She  stood  at  his  side  and  watched  him 
attentively,  and  a  great  feeling  of  content 
came  over  her.  She  said  very  little,  only 
now  and  then  answering  his  casual  ques 
tions;  but  happy  at  being  near  him,  and 
happy  in  the  kind  of  confidence  he  showed 
her.  It  seemed  all  so  natural  and  simple, 
and  yet  so  new  and  unlike  what  she  had  ex 
perienced  before.  She  felt  that  he  was  kind 
to  her,  and  kind  in  a  way  that  others  were 
not ;  but  she  did  not  analyze  her  sensations. 
She  only  felt  that  the  day  was  charming  and 
life  pleasant,  and  wished,  as  far  as  she 
framed  any  definite  wish  in  her  mind,  that 
it  might  always  go  on  so,  and  the  day  might 
be  eternal. 

His  mind  was  intent  upon  his  work,  and 
he  thought  of  nothing  else.  Still  the  pres 
ence  of  the  girl  at  his  side  was  pleasant  to 
him  and  unconsciously  influenced  him,  and 
he  worked  well  and  rapidly.  At  last  he 
turned  to  her  and  smiled,  and  said,  "  Now  I 
shall  put  you  in,"  and  pinning  his  sketch  to 
10 


146  FIAMMETTA. 

the  upper  part  of  his  canvas,  he  drew  in  the 
outline  of  her  figure. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Fiammetta  ? 
Is  that  right?" 

"  Exactly  right.  Oh,  how  well  it  conies 
in  just  there !  " 

"  Does  it  really  ?  Well,  I  think  it  does 
too.  I  am  rather  pleased  with  the  begin 
ning,  and  to-morrow,"  he  cried,  jumping  up, 
"  to-morrow,  Fiammetta,  we  will  begin  to 
work  seriously  —  with  color,  you  know. 
Now  there  is  nothing.  But  to-morrow  we 
will  make  it  laugh  and  sing,  and  it  shall 
frown  no  longer  in  black.  For  to-day  I 
have  done.  I  must  go  now,  for  it  is  getting 
late.  The  light  is  beginning  to  go." 

So  it  was :  the  thought  that  the  day  was 
over  made  her  sigh  ;  and  the  light  was  be 
ginning  to  go  from  her  as  well  as  the  place. 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  with  this  canvas 
for  the  night  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  we  can  hide  the 
easel  and  the  paint-box ;  but  the  canvas  ? 
Eh?" 

"  Let  me  carry  them  down  to  Nonna's. 
It  is  very  near,  and  then  they  will  be  safe." 

"  Bravo !  we  will,  we  will,  we  will,"  he 
said.  "  Now  get  the  donkey,  and  we  will 
be  off." 


FIAMMETTA.  147 

So  Fiammetta  brought  the  donkey,  and 
they  took  their  way  to  the  Casetta,  and  the 
grandmother  was  delighted,  she  said,  to  take 
charge  of  them  ;  and  so  it  was  all  arranged. 
Marco  then  shook  hands  with  them  both 
and  mounted  the  donkey,  and  nodded  to 
them  and  cried  out,  "  Addio  —  a  rivederci 
—  to-morrow  at  the  same  hour,  you  know, 
Fiammetta !  "  and  off  he  went ;  and  Fiam 
metta  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight ; 
and  her  grandmother  stood  at  her  side,  and 
watched  with  her,  and  said,  — 

"  He  has  a  pleasant  face  and  pleasant 
ways  with  him,  has  n't  he,  Fiammetta  ?  Not 
a  bit  like  his  father  —  who  was  a  cold, 
proud  man.  He  takes  after  his  mother,  and 
looks  like  her  too.  How  do  you  like  him, 
Fiammetta?  Was  he  pleasant  to  you  to 
day  ?  Why  don't  you  answer,  child  ? 
Don't  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fiammetta,  "  I  like  him." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  there  —  and  let 
him  paint  you  and  make  a  picture  of  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Fiammetta. 

"Well,  it  seems  as  if  you  did  not  care 
about  it  much." 

"  Oh  yes.     I  do." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  say  so  ?  " 


148  FIAMMETTA. 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  child,  come  in  now." 

"  In  a  moment,  Nonna." 

"  Don't  wait  long.  I  've  something  for 
you  to  do  ; "  and  so  saying  Gigia  went  in, 
and  left  Fiammetta  gazing  down  the  road, 
and  there  she  stood  for  a  half  hour. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  next  day  Marco  came  on  the  donkey 
to  the  Casetta,  to  get  his  things  and  carry 
them  to  the  torrent,  where  he  was  painting. 
Gigia  met  him  at  the  door  as  he  came  up 
and  was  dismounting,  and  cried,  — 

"  Buon  giorno  !  "  and  then  added,  "  Oh, 
you  have  come  for  your  things,  Signer 
Conte.  Fiammetta  has  carried  them  all  to 
the  place  an  hour  ago.  She  thought  you 
might  arrive  earlier,  and  you  will  find  every 
thing  right  and  ready  for  you  there." 

"  I  am  sorry  she  took  that  trouble.  They 
are  heavy,  and  the  donkey  could  take  them 
up  very  well." 

"  No !  She  thought  she  would  carry  them 
up  herself,  and  put  them  all  in  order." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  her.  Well,  good- 
by,  Gigia.  I  '11  be  off  at  once,  so  as  to 
lose  no  time." 

When  he  arrived  he  found  everything 
ready  and  in  order,  as  Gigia  had  said ;  and 
Fiammetta  greeted  him  with  a  smile,  and  he 


150  FIAMMETTA. 

lifted  his  finger  at  her  and  shook  his  head, 
and  said,  — 

"  Oh,  Fiammetta,  you  should  not  have 
done  this.  These  things  are  too  heavy  for 
you  to  carry.  You  must  not  do  it  again." 

"  Oh,"  she  laughed,  "  they  are  no  weight 
at  all,  signor ;  I  am  used  to  it ;  and  I  thought 
I  would  have  everything  here  and  ready  for 
you,  so  as  to  save  time.  I  am  not  a  lady, 
signor.  What  was  it  to  me  to  bring  these 
things  up  ?  —  nothing  but  a  pleasure.  But 
if  you  don't  like  it  " 

"  It  was  very  kind ;  but  you  must  not 
take  so  much  trouble  for  me.  Another  time 
we  will  bring  them  up  on  the  donkey." 

"  As  you  command,  signor,"  and  her  face 
clouded  a  little. 

Marco  perceived  it,  and  said,  "  It  is  no 
command  of  mine,  Fiammetta.  I  thought 
of  you  only,  and  wanted  to  save  you  this 
trouble.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  car 
rying  all  this  weight  on  your  head  through 
the  sun." 

Then  her  face  lightened,  and  she  went 
and  tied  the  donkey  in  the  shadow,  and 
came  back  smiling,  and  Marco  made  all  his 
preparations,  and  began  at  once  to  work. 

"  You  do  not  wish  me  to  go  and  sit  on 
the  rock,  as  I  did  before  ?  " 


FIAMMETTA.  151 

"  Not  yet ;  a  little  later,  when  I  have  laid 
in  a  little  of  the  general  effect,  and  blotted 
on  a  little  color." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  time  as  he  worked, 
curious  and  interested,  and  then  she  seated 
herself  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  and  plucked 
the  flowers  that  were  growing  profusely 
everywhere.  And  the  brook  murmured,  and 
the  trees  rustled,  and  the  birds  sang,  and 
a  white  cloud  now  and  then  strayed  over 
the  sky,  and  floated  calmly  and  slowly  along, 
and  the  idle  butterflies  wavered  about,  and 
all  was  calm  and  tender  and  exquisite  —  a 
day  for  dreaming.  They  did  not  talk  much, 
only  at  intervals,  for  he  was  busy  at  his 
work,  and  thinking  of  that :  and  she  —  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say  what  she  was  think 
ing  of ;  nothing,  she  would  have  said,  had 
you  asked  her. 

"  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  of  much  help  to 
you,"  at  last  she  said. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  are.  I  shall  want  you  to 
take  your  place  on  that  boulder  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  meantime  you  help  me  too  by 
sitting  near  me." 

"  How,  signor  ?  " 

"  No  matter  how.  The  air  helps  me,  the 
whisper  in  the  trees  helps  me,  the  sound  of 


152  F1AMMETTA. 

the  brook  helps  me,  the  song  of  the  birds 
helps  me,  and  in  the  same  way  you  do. 
They  are  influences  —  so  are  you.  Do  you 
wish  to  go  away  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  signor;  that  was  not  what  I 
meant.  I  like  to  sit  here,  if  I  am  not  in 
your  way." 

"  Anything  but  that.  Don't  be  troubled 
because  I  do  not  talk  to  you.  You  see  I 
am  very  busy." 

"Yes,  signor;  but  I  was  afraid  I  might 
be  in  your  way,  as  I  cannot  do  anything  for 
you." 

"  Well,  Fiammetta,  you  can  do  something 
for  me.  When  I  saw  you  here  first  you 
were  singing.  Won't  you  sing  me  some 
thing  now?  " 

"  Oh,  signor,  I  do  not  know  how  to  sing ; 
and  then  I  only  know  the  little  stornelli  and 
rispetti  of  the  country.  They  would  not 
please  you." 

"  Not  please  me  I  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
think  they  are  charming.  There  is  nothing 
I  like  so  much.  Do  you  know  many  of 
them?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I  know  them  all  —  that  is,  all 
that  we  sing  here." 

"  Will  you  sing  me  one  ?  " 


FIAMMETTA.  153 

"  What  will  I  sing  you  ?     I  don't  know 

which  one  to  choose." 

"  Sing  the  first  that  you  think  of." 

She  paused  a  moment ;  and  then,  without 

making  any  excuses  —  as  if  it  was  a  matter 

of  course  that  she  should  do  as  he  bade  her 

—  she  began  the  following :  — 

"Era  di  Maggio,  e  ben  me  ne  ricordo 
Quando  ci  cominciammo  a  ben  volere. 
Eran  fiorite  le  rose  dell'  orto 
E  le  ciliego  doventavan  neri. 
Le  doventavan  nere  nella  rama 
Allor  ti  vidi,  e  fosti  la  mia  dama. 
Passo  1'estate,  e  gia  cade  la  foglia 
Di  far  teco  all'  amor  non  ho  piii  voglia." 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  silvery.  She  sang 
these  verses  in  half -voice,  and  in  accord 
with  the  whole  scene.  The  air  was  plain 
tive,  and  in  the  minor  key,  as  nearly  all  the 
popular  airs  are  in  Italy,  and  lent  itself  to 
the  melancholy  sentiment  of  the  words. 

"  Sing  it  again,  it  is  exquisite !  "  said 
Marco ;  and  she  sang  it  again.  And  when 
she  had  finished,  he  said,  "  Sing  me  another, 
please ;  don't  stop."  Then  she  began  again  : 

"Bella,  bellina  che  ti  ha  fatto  gli  occhi 
Chi  te  1'ha  fatto  tanto  innamorati 
Di  sotto  terra  caveresti  i  morti 
Dal  letto  caveresti  gli  ammalati 
De  sotto  terra  caveresti  noi 
Mi  son  levato  il  cor  per  darlo  a  voi." 


154  F I  AM  MET  T A. 

"  That,  too,  is  beautiful.  What  a  tender, 
exquisite  air,  and  how  charmingly  you  sing, 
Fiammetta!  Your  voice  is  so  sweet,  and 
refined,  and  strong  too,  that  you  might  make 
your  fortune  if  you  would  study  for  the 
opera !  " 

"Oh,  signer!  I  have  such  a  poor  little 
voice.  You  are  laughing  at  me,  I  am  afraid. 
You  should  hear  Olivia  sing  these  songs. 
Ah !  she  has  a  voice  worth  hearing,  and 
mine  is  not." 

"  I  don't  care  about  hearing  Olivia  ;  I  VI 
rather  hear  you.  Sing  me  some  more,  won't 

you?" 

"  If  you  wish,"  and  again  she  sang,  — 

"  Fior  d'amaranto  ! 
Mi  son  sognato  non  m'amavi  punto 
Quando  mi  son  svegliato  aveva  pianto. 
Volgite  indietro  bocchino  da  baci 
Quanto  mi  piace  nel  farce  al  amor. 

"Fiorin  d' a  more  ! 

Quando  soflia  1'aquilone  s'affosca  il  mare 
Quando  spunta  1'amore  nasce  il  dolore. 
Volgite  indietro,  etc. 

"  Fiorin  d'amore! 
Tre  cose  non  si  possono  scordare 
La  patria,  1'amicizia,  ed  il  primo  amore. 
Volgite  indietro,"  etc. 

" ;  Fior  d'amaranto  '  again,"  said  Marco  ; 
and  she  did  as  he  requested. 


FIAMMETTA.  155 

"  That  is  sad,  sad  enough.  Why  are  all 
these  songs  so  sad  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  that  love  is  always 
sad  in  the  end,  at  least  with  people  in  our 
condition.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with 
persons  in  such  a  high  condition  as  yours. 
But  with  us,  love  is  a  flower  of  youth  that 
blooms  in  spring  for  an  hour,  and  then  fades 
and  has  no  fruit ;  or  if  it  has,  the  fruit  is 
only  bitter  and  poisonous  berries,  like  the 
belladonna,  signor." 

"  Oh,  not  always,  certainly  not  always." 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  almost 
always  is  killed  by  hard  work  and  want  and 
privation,  frost-struck." 

"  You  take  a  melancholy  view." 

"  I  look  at  life  around  me  as  I  see  it.  I 
dare  say  it  looks  different  to  you,  and  I  am 
glad  it  does.  I  hope,  signor,  it  always  will." 

"  And  I  hope  to  you  it  will  always  be  like 
to-day,  bright  and  clear.  You  are  happy 
now,  at  all  events." 

"  Ah,  signor,  I  fear  most  when  I  am  hap 
piest,  and  I  am  happy  now." 

"  Well,  sing  me  one  more  song,  —  I  will 
only  ask  you  for  one  more." 

And  again  she  sang  as  follows :  — 


156  FIAMMETTA. 

"Con  quclle  occhi  neri  neri 
Tu  mi  hai  rapito,  Tu  mi  hai  rapito,  il  cuor  a  me 
Ma  non  do  le  sian  sinceri 
Si  il  tuo  cuore,  Si  il  tuo  cuore,  pensa  a  me 
Tu  mi  fai  struggere  a  pocr.  a  poer 
Mi  fai  morire  di  dolor. 
Tu  mi  fai  struggere  a  poer,  a  poer 
Mi  fai  morire  di  dolor." 

"  Thank  you,  Fiammetta,"  said  Marco,  as 
she  finished.  "And  these  occhi  neri  neri, 
I  will  believe  to  be  sinceri,  sinceri" 

"Ah,  that  they  are,  signor,  if  you  mean 
mine  ;  and  I  don't  think  they  will  ever  make 
anybody  die  of  dolor." 

"  Ah,  who  knows,  Fiammetta  ?  Is  there 
nobody,  nobody,  nobody  ?  " 

"  No,  signor  ;  nobody,  nobody,  nobody." 

"  Are  you  sure,  sure,  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signor ;  I  am  sure,  sure,  sure,  as 
you  say." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  take  a  seat  on 
that  boulder,  just  as  you  were  yesterday." 

She  sprang  up  to  the  rock,  and  poised 
herself  lightly  there,  with  the  natural  uncon 
scious  grace  of  some  wild  animal,  and  turn 
ing  round,  said,  "  Like  this?  Am  I  right?" 

"  A  little  more  towards  me,  —  not  quite 
so  much.  Your  foot  a  little  lower.  That 's 
right.  Don't  stir.  You  will  never  better 
that." 


FIAMMETTA.  157 

And  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  better 
it,  it  was  so  charming.  There  was  a  kind  of  jf  ^ 

sweet  frank  radiance  in  her  face,  as  if  it  had 
taken  in  all  the  charm  of  the  place  ;  a  happy 
tender  look  too,  as  of  a  faint  veil  of  pensive- 
ness  —  such  pensiveness  as  does  not  detract 
from  happiness,  but  lends  to  it  an  added 
charm  and  refinement. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  thought,  "  where  did 
this  girl  get  that  expression  ?  Ah !  if  I 
could  only  convey  to  my  canvas  fire  and 
light  and  sparkle  and  tenderness  too.  '  The 
mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face,'  ' 
he  muttered  to  himself. 

"  Heavens !  how  much  better  nature  is 
than  art.  Art  is  all  very  well  —  but  —  but 
—  ah,  if  I  could  only  breathe  this  soul  on 
to  my  canvas !  Ah  yes  !  '  And  beauty  born 
of  murmuring  sound  shall  pass  into  thy 
face '  —  that  is  exactly  it.  The  brook's 
murmur  is  in  her  face,  and  its  sparkle  too ; " 
and  he  hummed  it  over  and  over  again. 
"  '  And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
shall  pass  into  her  face.'  " 

When  the  artist's  heart  and  soul  are  in 
his  work,  and  his  imagination  is  alive,  the 
hand  is  a  servant,  and  must  yield  its  obe 
dience.  Unwillingly  indeed  at  times  ;  but 


158  FIAMMETTA. 

when  the  happy  hour  comes,  willingly,  and 
so  it  was  now.  Marco  painted  fast,  and  all 
that  he  sought  for  was  before  him,  to  pluck 
and  make  his  own  if  he  could.  Fortunately 
the  hand  was  not  rebellious,  and  when  at 
last  he  laid  down  his  brush,  he  was  content 
with  his  day's  work.  "  If  I  do  not  lose  what 
I  have  got,  I  think  this  will  be  my  best  pic 
ture,"  he  thought.  "  But,  ah  !  it  is  so  easy 
to  lose.  I  will  let  the  face  alone  for  to-day ; 
and  now,"  he  cried  to  Fiammetta,  "  I  have 
done,  I  will  keep  you  no  longer.  Poor  child  ! 
you  must  be  tired.  But  you  have  been  so 
good,  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  ; "  and 
then  he  began  to  sing,  — 

"  Fior  d'amaranto ! 
Mi  son  sognato  non  m'amavi  punto." 

And  she  joined  in,  — 

"Quando  mi  son  svegliato  aveva  pianto." 

"  No !  no !  "  he  interrupted,  "  we  will  have 
no  pianto  to-day,"  and  then  he  sang,  — 

"  Era  di  Luglio,  e  ben  me  ne  recordo 
Quando  ci  cominciammo  a  ben  volere, 
Eran  tiorite  le  rose  dell'  orto 
E  le  ciliego  doventavan  neri." 

"  No,  signor,"  said  Fiaminetta ;  "  «  Era  di 
Maggio,'  it  begins." 
"What  did  I  say?" 


FIAMMETTA.  159 

"  Era  di  Luglio." 

"  Well ;  I  must  be  right,  for,  you  see,  it 
was  when  the  cherries  were  growing  black 
and  ripe,  and  that  is  July  here." 

"  So  it  is,  signer.  I  never  thought  of  that 
before." 

Then  she  came  round  behind  him,  saying, 
"  With  permission,  may  I  ?  "  and  looked  at 
the  canvas,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  signor !  oh, 
signor ! " 

"  What  is  it,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"  Oh,  signor !  signor !  it  is  so  "  —  and 
then  she  stopped,  and  went  on  :  "  But  it 
does  not  look  like  me.  No,  no !  never  !  " 

"That's  the  way  you  look  to  me,  Fiam 
metta." 

"  Ah  no,  signor !  that  cannot  be." 

"  Why  cannot  it  be?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  it  cannot  —  no,-  it 
cannot !  "  and  she  looked  into  his  face,  and 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  then  she 
turned  away  abruptly. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  girl?" 
thought  Marco.  "  This  is  very  odd." 

"  You  don't  like  it  then,  Fiammetta  ?  "  he 
said. 

"Oh,  signor!  like  it?  Oh  yes!  I  think 
it  is  beautiful  —  too  beautiful  for  me  a  thou 
sand  times  !  " 


160  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Nonsense,  Fiammetta.  Did  you  want  nie 
to  make  you  ugly  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  you  to  do  just  what  you  have 
done  —  only  —  no  matter,  signor.  I  cannot 
say  what  I  mean,  only  I  was  so  surprised. 
You  will  excuse  me,  signor,  won't  you?  I 
am  only  an  ignorante." 

Marco  did  not  understand  ;  but  he  saw 
she  was  confused,  and  remained  silent.  Then 
he  said  gayly,  "  Well,  now  we  must  bid  good- 
by  for  to-day  to  the  Naiad's  Nook.  Let  us 
call  this  place  the  Naiad's  Nook,  Fiammetta. 
It  has  another  name,  I  suppose  ;  but  no  mat 
ter.  We  will  have  a  name  of  our  own  to 
call  it  by,  no  matter  whether  anybody  else 
knows  what  we  mean,  if  we  know  ourselves. 
You  shall  be  the  Naiad,  and  this  your  nook ; 
and  you  shall  sing  to  its  music,  and  protect 
it,  and  be  its  guardian  spirit ;  and  I  will  be 
-  what  will  I  be  ?  —  I  will  be  out  of  the 
question,  or  an  intruder,  say  ?  " 

"No,  signor;  you  shall  be  the  magician 
that  makes  the  Naiad  come  forth  and  show 
herself ;  and  you  shall  robe  her  with  beauty 
that  she  has  not,  and  you  shall  wave  your 
wand  and  make  her  look  like  an  angel,  and 
the  whole  place  you  shall  enchant ;  and  when 
others  come  here  to  see  the  Naiad,  they  will 


F1AMMETTA.  161 

see  only  a  common  little  brook  to  drink  from, 
and  a  plain  little  peasant  girl  sitting  on  a 
rock,  looking  stupid  ;  and  that  shall  be  the 
difference  between  the  magician  and  poet 
and  the  stupid  boor,  who  comes  only  to 
quench  his  thirsty  lips." 

"  I  am  content  to  be  the  magician,  if,  when 
I  wave  my  wand,  my  Naiad  comes  forth  and 
smiles  on  me." 

"  And  she  will  always." 

"  Always  is  a  long  time,  Fiammetta.  Noth 
ing  delightful  comes  to  us  always  ;  only  once 
in  a  while,  when  it  chooses,  on  summer  days 
like  this." 

"  Oh  if  summer  would  last  forever !  " 
"  Oh  if  youth  would  leave  us  never!  (he  continued.) 
Oh  if  the  joy  we  have  in  the  spring 
Forever  its  happy  song  would  sing, 
And  love  and  friendship  never  take  wing, 

But  stay  with  us  forever ! 
Then  —  ah  then  !  —  if  such  gifts  were  given, 
Who  of  us  mortals  would  ask  for  heaven  V  " 

"I  never  heard  that  rispetto  before,"  said 
Fiammetta. 

"Nobody  ever  did,"  he  answered;  "I 
never  did  myself.  You  began  it  and  I  fin 
ished  it,  so  we  both  invented  it.  There  is 
nothing  new  in  it.  It  is  the  song  we  are 

always  singing  —  everybody  is  always  sing- 
11 


102  F1AMMETTA. 

ing  —  sometimes  to  one  air  and  sometimes 
to  another." 

"  Won't  you  sing  it  again  ?  " 

"  I  cannot ;  it  is  gone.  The  birds  fly  away 
when  we  try  to  catch  them." 

"  I  have  set  a  trap  for  them  in  my  mem 
ory,  signor.  Wait  a  minute ;  "  and  she 
stopped  and  looked  up  into  the  sky  sideways 
for  a  minute,  and  then  she  clapped  her  hands 
and  cried,  "  I  have  caught  them,  signor  ;  I 
have  caught  the  birds !  "  and  then  she  re 
peated  the  words. 

u  Bravo  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  what  a  memory 
you  have !  " 

"  Oh  !  that  is  easy  enough.  The  rhymes 
make  me  remember  them,"  and  then  she 
sang,  - 

"  Oh  if  summer  would  last  forever ! 
Oh  if  youth  would  leave  us  never  ! 
Oh  if  the  joy  we  have  in  the  spring 
Forever  its  happy  song  would  sing, 
And  love  and  friendship  never  take  wing, 

But  stay  with  us  forever  ! 
Then  —  ah  then  !  —  if  such  gifts  were  given, 
Who  of  us  mortals  would  ask  for  heaven  ?  " 

"  I  shall  sing  that  now,  signor,  all  summer 
long,  and  all  winter  long  perhaps."  And 
thus  the  day  drew  to  a  close ;  and  they 
walked  towards  home  together,  carrying  all 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  163 

his  things  to  the  Casetta  ;  and  then  she  ac 
companied  him  a  little  way  on,  till  they  came 
to  the  turning  of  the  hill.  There  they  shook 
hands,  and  parted.  He  had  hardly  gone  one 
hundred  paces  when,  on  putting  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  he  felt  the  little  box  of  corals, 
that  he  had  quite  forgotten.  Then  he  cried 
out,  "  Ho  !  Fiammetta  !  "  She  had  not 
moved  from  the  place,  but  was  looking  af 
ter  him  as  he  disappeared  and  reappeared 
through  the  trees.  She  came  running  to 
wards  him. 

"What  is  it,  signor?" 

He  held  out  the  box  and  said,  "  Here  is 
something  I  brought  for  you  this  morning, 
and  I  quite  forgot  to  give  it  to  you.  I  want 
you  to  take  it  and  wear  it  to-morrow.  It 
will  be  just  a  little  bit  of  color  on  your  neck 
that  I  wish  to  put  into  the  picture  ;  or,  stop  ! 
let  me  put  it  on  for  you." 

She  smiled,  and  came  forward  to  him,  and 
he  clasped  it  on  her  neck.  "  There  !  "  he 
said,  "  it  is  just  the  thing  I  wanted,  and  it 
just  suits  your  complexion.  Be  sure  you 
don't  forget  to  wear  it." 

"  I  will  take  good  care  of  it,  signor,"  she 
said. 

Then    he    said   good-by  again,  and  went 


164  F 1 AM M ETTA. 

away.  She  lingered  a  few  moments,  and 
then  slowly  sauntered  homewards.  As  soon 
as  she  thought  he  had  gone  so  far  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  see  her,  she 
put  her  hands  up  to  her  neck,  unclasped  the 
coral  necklace,  gazed  at  it  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  it 
again  and  again.  Poor  Fiammetta !  she  did 
not  quite  understand  what  it  all  meant  that 
was  passing  in  her  mind,  but  she  was  happy 
and  pleased  ;  and  the  yrilli  that  sang  their 
tiny  chimes  to  her  all  the  way  home  chirped 
a  low  murmuring  accompaniment  of  pleasure 
to  her  dreaming  thoughts.  All  the  world 
looked  gentle  and  kind,  and  seemed  to  smile 
on  her  that  evening. 

Again  and  again  she  stopped,  looked  at 
the  necklace,  and  kissed  it,  and  then  clasped 
it  round  her  neck ;  and  as  she  did  this  the 
thought  came  over  her  :  "  What  will  Nonna 
say  when  she  sees  this  ?  "  and  this  troubled 
her  for  a  moment.  But  give  it  up  she  could 
not,  let  Nonna  say  and  think  what  she  chose. 

Just  as  she  anticipated,  the  first  words 
that  Nonna  spoke  after  she  came  into  the 
house  were:  "  What  is  that  you  have  on  your 
neck,  Fiammetta  ?  It  looks  like  coral." 

"It  is  coral,  Nonna." 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  165 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  Did  the  Signer 
Conte  give  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Fiammetta  ;  "  he  did  not  give 
it  to  me.  He  lent  it  to  me,  and  asked  me 
to  wear  it,  so  that  he  could  paint  it  in  his 
picture." 

"  Oh !  "  said  her  grandmother,  "  that  alters 
matters.  Let  me  look  at  it,"  and  she  exam 
ined  it  closely.  "  They  are  beautiful,  very 
beautiful  corals,"  she  said.  "  I  know  some 
thing  about  such  things,  and  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  saw  such  beautiful  ones.  And 
what  is  this  stone  in  the  clasp?  Why,  Fi 
ammetta,  it  is  a  diamond  !  " 

"  A  diamond  ?  "  cried  Fiammetta. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  I  remember  this  very  string 
and  this  very  clasp.  It  belonged  to  the 
Countess  his  mother.  I  have  often  seen  her 
wear  it,  years  ago.  You  must  be  very  care 
ful  of  it,  Fiammetta.  It  is  very  valuable, 
and  what  would  he  say  if  you  lost  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  very  careful.  I  will  not  lose 
it,  Nonna.  I  will  keep  it  on  my  neck,  so 
that  I  cannot  lose  it." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  days  and  the  weeks  went  away,  and 
autumn  was  drawing  near.  Every  day  Marco 
came  to  the  Naiad's  Nook,  and  every  day 
Fiammetta  was  there,  and  the  picture  was 
nearly  finished.  Sometimes  now  the  weather 
changed  —  the  sky  was  overcast,  or  it  rained 
—  and  Marco  did  not  come;  and  all  those 
days  Fiammetta  was  sad,  uneasy,  and  listless, 
and  could  interest  herself  in  nothing,  but 
would  sit  at  the  window  and  silently  gaze  at 
the  gray  world  outside  in  its  shroud  of  mist, 
or  watch  the  trickling  tears  of  rain  drag 
down  the  bleared  panes,  wondering  if  the 
day  would  ever  come  to  an  end,  so  lonely 
and  wearisome  was  her  heart.  And  then  the 
sun  would  shine  out  again,  and  Marco  would 
arrive,  and  she  was  again  happy.  But  as 
the  autumn  came  on,  she  began  to  think 
that  the  time  was  coming,  and  coming  all 
too  fast,  when  the  picture  would  be  finished  ; 
and  he  would  go  away  and  return  no  more, 
and  she  would  be  left  alone,  and  then  what 
should  she  do? 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  167 

Little  by  little  the  child's  whole  heart  had 
been  given  to  him.  He  had  never  spoken 
a  word  of  love  to  her,  though  he  had  always 
been  kind  and  affectionate.  Long  before 
she  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  she  had  loved 
him.  She  could  not  help  it.  She  did  not 
wish  to  help  it.  Her  love  was  a  secret  joy 
that  illuminated  all  her  life,  and  was  inex 
tricably  mingled  with  her  every  thought  and 
act.  She  had  hidden  it  as  well  as  she  could, 
with  jealous  care,  but  sometimes  she  could 
not  help  asking  herself  why  he  did  not  see 
it ;  and  oh !  if  he  did,  what  could  become 
of  her  ?  what  right  had  she  to  love  him,  he 
was  so  far  above  her  ?  It  was  like  the  desire 
of  the  moth  for  the  star,  of  the  day  for  the 
morrow.  It  was  pure  and  tender,  yet  pas 
sionate  at  times  ;  and  at  times  she  gave  way 
when  alone  to  fits  of  wild  weeping  and  al 
most  of  despair.  But  when  he  came  and 
was  near  her,  and  talked  with  her,  it  all 
changed  again  ;  and  she  looked  at  him  and 
felt  his  presence  cheer  and  lift  her,  and 
give  color  to  all  her  life,  and  she  was  happy. 

Did  he  love  her?  Was  it  possible  that 
he  could  love  her  ?  she  asked  herself.  Yes, 
she  thought,  as  a  master  loves  his  dog  that 
follows  him,  and  is  unhappy  at  his  absence. 


168  FIAMMETTA. 

But  more  than  that  —  ah,  no !  —  more  than 
that  she  must  not  ask  for.  Was  she  not 
satisfied  that  he  was  so  constant,  so  kind,  so 
affectionate ;  that  he  had  never  taken  ad 
vantage  of  her  love,  which  it  was  impossible 
that  he  did  not  feel  ?  Was  it  all  purely  in 
his  mind  —  was  there  nothing  in  his  senses 
that  drew  him  to  her  ?  Did  he  never  long 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  —  as  she  longed  to 
throw  her  arms  about  him,  and  pour  out  her 
whole  heart  to  him  ?  Sometimes  she  thought 
that  she  should  not  be  able  to  resist  the  im 
pulse  that  came  wildly  over  her  to  fling  her 
self  upon  his  breast  and  cry,  "  I  love  you ! 
I  love  you ! "  Sometimes  when  he  stood 
beside  her,  and  she  felt  his  breath  upon  her 
cheek,  she  thought,  "Why  does  he  not  seize 
me  and  carry  me  with  him  ?  I  am  his  ;  he 
must  know  it.  Does  he  never  have  such  im 
pulses  ?  " 

Ah,  yes !  Fiammetta,  he  knew  them  too 
well.  It  was  only  with  the  utmost  self-con 
trol  that  he  could  resist  them.  At  times  the 
blood  mounted  into  his  brain  as  she  stood 
at  his  side  ;  all  his  senses  were  aflame;  he 
longed  to  seize  her  and  clasp  her  to  his  heart 
and  smother  her  with  kisses,  and  his  heart 
sometimes  so  throbbed  that  he  knew  not 


FTAMMETTA.  169 

what  he  was  doing.  His  struggles  with  him 
self  were  often  desperate.  Was  it  possible 
that  this  girl  should  stand  at  his  side  —  her 
love  beaming  out  of  her  every  look,  thrill 
ing  at  every  casual  touch  —  and  he  not 
know  it  ?  He  knew  it  but  too  well,  and  he 
saw  it  with  fear. 

But  he  remembered  the  sad  story  of  her 
mother.  It  had  made  a  deep,  an  indelible 
impression  on  him ;  and  from  the  first  he 
had  sworn  to  himself  a  solemn  oath  that  he 
would  never  injure  her,  and  never  take  ad 
vantage  of  her  ignorance  or  her  love.  Firm 
as  he  was  of  character  —  obstinate  even  in 
many  things  —  this  resolution,  hard  as  it 
was  to  keep,  he  adhered  to.  He  was  at 
tracted  —  deeply  touched  and  moved  in 
every  fibre  by  her  —  but  "  No  !  "  he  said  to 
himself,  "  I  will  never  break  her  heart :  I 
will  never  ruin  her.  I  will  not  have  that 
crime  on  my  conscience !  "  And  then  he  ac 
knowledged  to  himself  that  he  loved  her. 
Strongly  as  he  fought  against  this,  he  had 
to  acknowledge  it,  and  this  made  it  still 
harder.  But  "  No !  "  he  said,  "  I  cannot 
marry  her.  That  would  be  a  folly."  "  But 
why  not  marry  her?"  he  then  would  ask 
himself.  "  She  is  pure  —  she  is  good  —  she 


170  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

is  beautiful  —  she  is  devoted  to  me.  She 
loves  me  as  probably  —  nay,  certainly  —  no 
one  will  ever  love  me  again."  And  then 
he  imagined  what  would  happen  if  he  did 
marry  her,  and  took  her  back  with  him  to 
a  totally  different  life  and  society  and  sur 
roundings.  Here  alone  with  nature,  in  the 
woods,  among  the  trees,  or  by  the  mountain 
torrent,  nothing  could  be  more  charming, 
more  in  harmony  with  everything.  She  was 
simply  a  child  of  nature,  and  here  the  whole 
framework  of  her  life  lent  a  beauty  and 
grace  to  her  every  act  and  word,  —  a  fra 
grance  as  of  a  wild  flower  exhaled  from  her, 
as  of  a  wild  flower  one  plucks  from  the 
rugged  mountain  top,  where  it  grows  all 
alone.  But  that  very  flower  transplanted 
into  the  garden  or  the  greenhouse,  among 
the  rarest  products,  the  most  perfect  exotics, 
brought  to  perfection  by  careful  selection 
and  cultivation,  how  would  it  look  there? 
These  questions  tormented  him,  and  he  knew 
no  solution  to  them.  His  heart  pressed  him 
in  one  direction,  his  reason  in  another. 

Once  only  had  he  given  way,  and  then  but 
for  a  moment.  He  had  worked  later  than 
usual  one  afternoon,  and  twilight  had  al 
most  overtaken  him  ere  he  was  aware  of  it. 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  171 

Suddenly  he  perceived  that  the  light  had 
almost  gone,  and  he  hurried  to  put  his  things 
in  order,  and  go  away.  He  was  detained  at 
the  Casetta  by  Antonio,  who  wished  to  con 
sult  him  on  a  little  affair  ;  and  evening  had 
already  drawn  down  when  he  took  leave. 
Fiammetta  insisted  on  accompanying  him  as 
usual  to  the  bend  of  the  road,  which  they 
had  named  II  Dono,  because  he  had  there 
clasped  the  corals  on  her  neck.  The  even 
ing  was  exquisite.  The  moon  had  already 
risen,  and  poured  its  silvery  light  over  all 
the  pure,  cloudless  sky.  Scarcely  a  breath 
of  air  was  astir.  Here  and  there  the  faint 
stars  shone,  almost  lost  in  the  full  radiance 
of  the  larger  light.  The  grilli  were  trilling 
a  myriad  infinitesimal  bells  in  the  grasses. 
It  was  one  of  those  tender  evenings  that  stir 
the  soul  and  touch  it  with  a  thrill,  and 
awaken  dim  memories  and  fond  hopes. 

They  had  been  walking  side  by  side,  and 
for  some  minutes  had  not  spoken.  Yet  each 
felt  the  presence  of  the  other  with  a  mag 
netic  thrill.  At  last  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  her  to  say  good-by.  She  did  the 
same,  and  as  her  tender  eyes  looked  into  his 
with  a  wistful  earnestness,  he  suddenly  drew 
her  to  him,  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  and 


172  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

kissed  her.  She  fell  into  his  arms  with  a 
low  cry,  and  a  moment  passed  that  seemed 
an  age,  such  was  the  wild  tumultuous  hurry 
of  feeling  that  pulsed  through  every  nerve. 
Then  he  came  as  it  were  to  himself,  and  sud 
denly  dropped  her  hand.  "  Oh,  signor  !  sig- 
nor !  "  she  cried,  and  could  say  nothing  else. 
No  words  could  express  all  that  she  felt  at 
that  moment. 

But  he  recovered  himself,  after  a  fierce 
struggle,  and  without  saying  anything,  he 
flung  out  his  arms  with  clenched  hands,  and 
turned  away  his  face  ;  and  she  stood  with  her 
arms  fallen  and  looking  down  and  waiting. 
What  was  to  come  next  ?  What  would  he 
say  and  do  now  ?  Ah,  how  she  loved  him  ! 
and  he  must  love  her.  Why  did  he  not  say 
so? 

Finally  he  said,  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
kissed  you.  Forgive  me,  Fiammetta.  I  will 
not  do  it  again.  Good-by,  and  God  bless 
you,  dear  Fiammetta !  I  do  not  dare  to 
stay."  And  he  plunged  away  wildly  into 
the  wood  and  was  gone. 

And  she,  utterly  overcome,  dropped  down 
on  her  knees,  and  wept  as  she  had  never 
wept  before,  and  then  she  brushed  away  her 
tears  and  rose  and  threw  out  her  arms  after 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  173 

him ;  and  then  she  smiled  a  radiant  smile, 
and  cried  out,  —  "  Oh,  he  loves  me !  he  loves 
me  !  but  why  did  he  not  say  so  ?  Why  did 
he  rush  away  ?  " 

She  had  a  dim  idea  why,  but  she  did  not 
quite  understand  it.  Still  she  felt  through 
all  that  he  loved  her,  and  that  was  sunrise 
to  her  heart.  Whatever  might  come  of  it, 
he  loved  her.  She  wandered  about  in  the 
moonlight  vaguely,  anywhere,  thinking  it  all 
over  for  more  than  an  hour.  She  heard  her 
grandmother  call  for  her  from  the  Casetta, 
but  she  would  not  answer.  She  could  not 
go  in.  She  could  not  bear  to  be  spoken  to. 
She  could  not  bear  the  house,  and  the  prose,  j 
the  dull  prose,  of  the  house.  The  heavens 
were  with  Tier.  The  stars  understood  her. 
She  had  no  need  to  feign  before  them.  She 
could  utter  all  her  heart  to  them  without 
fear.  But  at  last  she  had  to  go  in  and  hear 
her  grandmother's  reproaches,  and  answer 
her  questions  as  well  as  she  could. 

"  Ah,  you  will  go  just  as  your  mother  did 
at  last,"  Gigia  cried ;  "  it  is  in  the  blood. 
You  shall  not  go  with  the  Conte  again." 

Fiammetta  could  say  nothing,  but  "  I  have 
done  no  wrong,  Nonna.  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
have  not.  You  must  not  scold  me.  No, 


f 


174  F I  AM M ETTA. 

Nonna,  indeed  you  must  not.  You  must  let 
me  go  as  I  have.  Indeed,  I  will  go.  What 
ever  happens,  I  will  go.  Nothing  shall  pre 
vent  me.  No !  nothing ;  nothing ;  nothing." 

And  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Marco,  on  his  part,  in  agitation  and  half- 
remorse  pursued  his  way  home.  He  saw 
that  he  had  made  a  false  step,  and  he  blamed 
himself  for  it.  "  But  who  can  be  always 
master  of  himself  ?  "  he  said.  "  After  all, 
fortunately  I  said  nothing.  I  pledged  my 
self  to  nothing,  and  I  will  be  more  careful 
for  the  future."  Still  his  conscience  pricked 
him.  "  It  is  of  no  use  to  make  excuses," 
he  went  on  to  himself.  "  I  have  led  her  on 
to  love  me,  and  she  knows  I  love  her.  If  I 
do  not  marry  her,  I  shall  none  the  less  have 
ruined  her  happiness,  if  I  have  taught  her 
to  love  me.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  pro 
fess  that  I  do  not  think  she  does  love  me. 
But  how  can  I  help  that?  How  could  I 
help  that  ?  "  "  Ah,  but  you  could,  had  you 
chosen,"  whispered  conscience ;  "  and  now 
what  will  you  do?" 

He  had  not  much  consolation  in  his 
thoughts  ;  but  he  determined  to  be  careful 
for  the  future,  and  promised  himself  that  he 
would  not  go  back  to  her  for  two  or  three 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  175 

days.  "  But  that  will  seem  strange,  will  it 
not  ?  The  evil  is  done  ;  the  steed  is  stolen  ; 
what  use  to  lock  the  door  now  ?  " 

Still  for  a  couple  of  days  he  did  not  re 
turn,  and  when  he  did  he  was  not  persuaded 
that  he  had  bettered  matters.  Fiammetta's 
eyes  sparkled  as  she  met  him,  and  he  had 
great  difficulty  in  explaining  his  absence. 
Indeed  he  had  to  invent  an  excuse,  and  pre 
tend  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  write  let 
ters,  and  had  work  to  do  at  the  Villa. 

This  was  partially  true.  After  returning 
home,  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  his  friend, 
Carlo,  from  which  we  make  some  extracts  :  — 

"  I  wish  you  were  here  to  see  the  picture 
I  have  been  painting,  and  to  give  me  your 
advice  about  it.  I  followed  your  counsel, 
and  have  done  what  I  think  myself  is  my 
best  work.  Accidentally  I  came  across  a 
place  here  which  exactly  responds  to  my 
idea  —  an  exquisite  spot,  that  it  was  a  de 
light  to  paint.  And  more  than  this,  I  found 
my  Naiad  there  —  a  beautiful  girl,  quite  out 
of  all  my  hopes  to  find  in  such  a  place  — 
simple,  graceful,  and  with  such  eyes  as  you 
never  saw.  She  has  been  my  constant  com 
panion  ever  since  I  came  here.  Indeed,  she 
has  been  my  only  companion,  for,  as  you 


176  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

may  well  imagine,  there  is  no  society  here, 
and  not  a  friend  or  even  acquaintance.  So 
Fiammetta  (that  is  the  name  of  my  Naiad) 
and  I  have  led  a  sort  of  an  idyllic  life  for 
the  last  two  months.  I  wish  in  what  we  call 
good  society  I  might  ever  hope  to  find  such  a 
girl,  so  true,  so  beautiful,  and  sympathetic  ; 
so  full  of  high  poetic  sense  and  native  refine 
ment.  You  will  laugh  at  me,  I  know,  and 
think  I  am  mad  to  talk  in  this  way  about  a 
girl  who  in  condition  is  so  far,  as  you  would 
say,  below  me.  But  she  is  below  me  in 
nothing,  not  even  as  I  suspect  in  birth,  at 
least  on  the  father's  side.  Her  story  is  a  cu 
rious  one,  but  I  will  not  write  it  down  here. 
It  would  be  too  long.  When  we  meet  I  will 
give  you  all  the  details  as  I  have  learned 
them  :  at  all  events  there  is  a  strain  of  gen 
tle  blood  in  her,  like  the  graft  of  a  pre 
cious  fruit  upon  a  strong  wild  stock ;  and  I 
confess,  dear  friend,  that  she  has  quite 
bewitched  me.  You  promised  you  would 
make  me  a  visit  in  the  autumn,  and  the  au 
tumn  is  now  here.  I  hold  you  to  your 
promise.  Come,  and  we  will  talk  together, 
as  one  cannot  talk  on  paper.  You  will  find 
enough  to  do  here  if  you  wish  to  work :  the 
walks  are  delightful ;  there  are  passages 


F1AMMETTA.  177 

everywhere  to  sketch  of  exceeding  beauty ; 
and  you  will  see  my  Naiad  in  the  flesh,  and 
she  is  worth  seeing,  and  she  will  sing  to  you 
the  most  enchanting  little  songs,  in  a  voice 
such  as  you  will  rarely  hear.  Besides,  I 
want  your  counsel  about  other  things  than 
my  picture.  You  are  my  best  and  dearest 
friend,  and  I  want  you  here." 

This  was  his  letter,  and  this  his  excuse 
for  not  coming.  When  he  met  Fiammetta 
again  she  did  not  question  the  truth  of  the 
excuse.  She  was  only  too  glad  to  see  him 
again,  and  find  there  was  any  reason  for  his 
staying  away. 

"But  I  hope  you  have  not  missed  me 
much,"  he  foolishly  said. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  Waiting  for  you.  Every  day  I  have 
come  here,  and  spent  all  the  day,  thinking 
every  moment  that  you  would  come  ;  but 
you  did  not,  so  I  carried  home  all  the  things 
at  night,  and  brought  them  back  in  the 
morning." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  you  had  all  that  trouble, 
Fiammetta." 

"  It  was  no  trouble ;  the  only  trouble  I 

had  was,  that  I  was  afraid,  as  you  did  not 
12 


178  F I  AM M ETTA. 

come,  that  you  might  not  be  well.  But  I 
went  down  yesterday  as  far  as  the  Villa, 
when  it  was  getting  too  late  to  expect  you, 
and  there  I  waited  near  by  till  I  saw  Pietro, 
and  he  told  me  you  were  well,  and  then  I 
came  back." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtless  in  me  not  to  send 
you  word.  I  had  no  idea  you  would  be  put 
to  so  much  trouble,  and  would  come  down  to 
the  Villa  to  assure  yourself  I  was  well." 

"  But  supposing  you  had  been  ill,  I  could 
not  be  at  rest  till  I  knew  you  were  well." 

They  were  neither  of  them  quite  at  their 
ease  for  a  time.  The  recollection  of  their 
last  parting  was  in  both  their  memories,  and 
too  strongly  impressed  not  to  create  a  little 
awkwardness.  Marco  was  determined,  if 
possible,  to  keep  guard  over  all  he  said  and 
did ;  and  Fiammetta  had  a  feeling  that  all 
was  not  exactly  as  it  had  been  before,  and 
her  spirit  was  not  free.  This,  however, 
slowly  wore  away  as  the  day  went  on,  and 
their  previous  relations  were  in  great  meas 
ure  resumed.  He  busied  himself  with  his 
work  —  or  rather  pretended  to  busy  himself 
more  than  he  really  did.  His  thoughts,  de 
spite  himself,  kept  running  away  with  him, 
and  there  were  long  silences.  Suddenly  he 
said, — 


FIAMMETTA.  179 

"Do  you  remember  your  mother,  Fiam- 
metta  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signer,  I  just  remember  her ;  but 
you  know  she  died  when  I  was  very  young. 
I  was  scarcely  five  years  old.  I  remember 
one  day,  in  particular,  when  she  took  me  out 
to  walk.  She  was  very  ill,  I  suppose,  then, 
for  she  walked  very  slowly,  and  constantly 
stopped  to  rest,  and  we  sat  down  on  a  rock 
together.  It  was  in  the  autumn,  only  a  short 
time  before  she  died.  All  at  once  she  seized 
me  in  her  arms,  and  pressed  me  to  her  bosom 
so  closely  that  I  could  hardly  breathe ;  and 
I  was  a  little  frightened,  it  was  so  sudden  ; 
and  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  tears,  and  cried, 
and  cried,  and  cried,  so  that  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do ;  and  I  began  to  cry  too.  And 
then  she  said,  —  '  Oh,  infame  !  infame  ! 
How  can  I  ever  pardon  you  ?  Oh,  I  cannot, 
I  cannot !  Try  as  I  will,  I  cannot.'  And 
then  she  almost  fainted  away,  and  lay  back 
on  the  grass  for  a  while.  I  did  not  know 
what  she  meant,  and  I  cried,  and  was  more 
frightened.  And  by  and  by  she  sat  up  and 
said,  — '  Don't  cry,  Fiammetta,  and  be  a 
good  girl  always  ;  and  may  God  bless  you, 
and  make  you  happy  —  happier  than  your 
poor  mother ;  and  oh,  Madonna  mia  I  let 


180  F I  AM M  ETTA. 

her  never  be  deceived  as  I  was.'  And  after 
a  time  she  got  up,  and  we  went  home." 

"  Poor  woman !  "  said  Marco.  "  You  did 
not  know  what  she  meant,  then,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"No,  signer;  but  I  always  remembered 
that  day,  and  the  words  she  said.  You  know 
that  in  one's  memory  there  are  always  some 
moments,  some  scenes,  some  words,  that  are 
stamped  in  deeper  than  others,  though  we 
know"  no  reason  why  they  should  be.  Some- 
times  what  we  remember  is  so  trivial,  when 
all  that  was  important  is  lost.  What  she 
meant  then  I  did  not  know ;  but  I  after 
wards  did,  for  Nonna  told  me  that  she  was 
very  unhappy,  because  my  father  had  gone 
away  and  left  her,  and  had  treated  her 
cruelly." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  your  father,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"Nothing.  I  don't  know  whether  he  is 
living  or  dead.  We  have  never  heard  any 
thing  about  him.  All  that  I  know  is  that 
he  was  a  gentleman,  and  that  my  mother 
went  away  with  him,  and  came  back  without 
him,  and  brought  me  home  here  with  her. 
And  when  Nonna  is  angry  with  me,  she 
taunts  me  about  him,  and  says  he  was  a  cruel 
man,  and  that  my  mother  was  a  wilful,  ob- 


F I AM  M ETTA.  181 

stinate  woman,  and  deserved  what  she  got, 
and  that  she  might  have  known  better  than 
to  trust  him,  and  that  if  I  do  not  mind  I 
shall  come  to  the  same  fate.  But  that  is 
only  when  Nonna  is  angry ;  and  I  know  she 
is  sorry  after  she  has  said  such  things,  for 
she  is  kinder  than  ever  as  soon  as  her  anger 
is  over.  Poor  mamma !  I  often  cry  to  think 
of  her,  signor.  How  could  she  help  it,  sig- 
nor  ?  She  loved  him,  and  how  could  she  re 
fuse  to  go  with  him  if  he  insisted  upon  it  ? 
She  could  not  know  that  he  meant  any 
wrong  to  her ;  she  could  not  know  that  he 
would  be  faithless  to  her  and  abandon  her, 
and  leave  her  to  die  all  alone." 

"  It  was  all  very,  very  sad,"  said  Marco. 

The  tears  had  come  into  Fiammetta's  eyes 
as  she  said  this,  and  she  sat  for  a  time  silent 
and  thoughtful ;  and  Marco,  touched  by  her 
simple  words,  resolved  even  more  firmly 
than  before  to  guard  his  own  words  and  ac 
tions,  and  made  a  solemn  vow  to  himself  not 
to  betray  her,  and  not  to  play  with  her  af 
fections,  as  conscience  told  him  he  had  hith 
erto  so  carelessly  done.  "  No !  "  he  said, 
"  she  shall  not  suffer  from  me.  I  have  been 
foolish,  but  I  will  not  be  base.  There  shall 
come  no  sorrow  to  her  through  me  if  I  can 


182  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

help  it,  if  it  is  not  already  too  late.  I  will 
finish  my  picture  at  once.  I  will  leave  her 
by  degrees  alone." 

But  such  resolutions  were  easier  to  make 
than  to  keep,  and  though  his  picture  was 
virtually  completed,  he  still  went  back  and 
worked  at  it.  This  idyllic  life  had  a  charm 
for  him  that  he  could  not  forego.  He  was 
more  deeply  interested  in  Fiammetta  than 
he  honestly  owned  to  himself ;  and  when  he 
endeavored  to  stay  away,  he  was  listless  and 
uneasy,  and  desired  to  see  her.  He  knew 
the  flame  would  burn,  but  he  could  not  re 
solve  not  to  flit  about  it.  He  accused  him 
self  of  selfishness,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Then 
he  began  seriously  to  consider  whether  he 
might  not  marry  her.  Where  could  he  find 
a  purer,  sweeter,  and  more  spirited  character, 
and  a  more  self -forgetting  devotion  ? 

The  autumn  had  now  come,  and  October 
was  in  its  glory.  A  pensive  tenderness  was 
on  the  atmosphere,  and  a  feeling  of  melan 
choly  veiled  the  world.  The  chestnuts  were 
golden  in  the  sunlight,  flinging  their  spiny 
balls  to  the  ground,  and  bursting  to  scatter 
there  their  brown  and  shining  nuts.  The 
luxuriant  clematis  wreathed  with  feathery 
tufts  every  wall  and  tree.  Blackberries  were 


FIAMMETTA.  183 

ripe  on  the  hedges.  The  hawthorn  and  eg 
lantine  showed  everywhere  their  coral  hip 
and  haws.  The  late  wild  flowers  enamelled 
the  brown  earth.  Jays  shrieked  in  the 
woods.  Quails  and  partridges  were  calling 
over  the  slopes.  Hawks  sailed  far  up  in  the 
misty  light  on  easy  curves.  Everything 
tended  to  sentiment,  and  both  Marco  and 
Fiammetta  were  subdued  to  it.  All  this 
made  it  more  difficult  for  him  to  end  his 
idyl,  and  so  it  went  on. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  picture  was  now  finished,  and  Marco 
knew  it  was.  There  was  really  nothing  more 
to  do.  But  he  did  not  like  to  acknowledge 
it,  for  then  he  should  have  no  excuse  to  come 
back,  and  the  pleasant  days  would  be  over. 
It  would  be  like  locking  up  his  home  to  go 
away,  —  still  he  felt  that  it  must  come  to  an 
end,  and  he  had  a  certain  sense  of  shame  in 
pretending  that  there  was  more  to  do. 

One  evening,  when  the  day's  work  was 
over  and  he  was  putting  together  his  things 
to  carry  them  as  usual  to  the  Casetta,  he 
found  strength  to  say  to  Fiammetta,  — 

"  Well,  Fiammetta,  the  picture  is  done. 
I  think  I  shall  work  no  longer  at  it.  I  am 
afraid  our  sittings  are  over." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  as  she  gazed  at  it,  "  it  is 
done,  I  suppose.  It  has  seemed  to  me  per 
fect  for  a  long  time  ;  but  I  am  only  an  iyno- 
rante.  But,"  she  added  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am 
sorry  —  so  sorry.  You  will  not  come,  then, 
any  more.  I  shall  not  see  you  any  more." 


F I  AM  MET  T A.  185 

"  Not  see  me  any  more !  "  he  exclaimed ; 
"and  why  not?" 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  if  the  picture  is  finished 
you  will  have  no  reason  to  come.  Why 
should  you  come  ?  " 

"  So  you  think  I  shall  not  want  to  see  you 
again,  —  that  now  my  picture  is  finished,  you 
will  be  nothing  to  me." 

"No,"  she  answered;  "  but  it  will  not  be 
the  same  ;  and  oh,  signor,  you  have  been  so 
good  to  me,  and  I  have  been  so  happy  all 
these  long  days.  But  now  the  summer  is 
gone  and  the  autumn  has  come,  and  the 
picture  is  finished,  and  you  too  will  be  go 
ing,  and  I  feel  that  all  is  over." 

"  Oh  no,  Fiammetta,  you  will  not  get  rid 
of  me  so  easily  as  that.  You  will  see  me 
again  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  a  good 
many  to-morrows  yet.  I  am  not  going  away. 
Do  you  think  too  that  I  shall  not  miss  these 
pleasant  days  with  you  ?  See,  Fiammetta, 
this  picture  has  really  been  finished  many 
days  ago.  I  should  have  carried  it  away 
long  before,  had  it  not  been  for  you.  I  wish 
it  was  not  finished  now,  for  then  it  would 
give  me  an  excuse  to  corne  back." 

"  An  excuse,  signor  !  but  you  need  no  ex 
cuse." 


186  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Ah  yes  !  I  do.  I  need  it  to  myself  and 
to  Nonna.  What  would  she  say  if  I  should 
keep  coming  back  as  before  without  any  ex 
cuse?  But  I  shall  come  back,  be  assured 
of  that.  We  are  not  going  to  say  good-by 
now,  unless  you  insist  on  it." 

"  Oh  no  !  I  shall  never  insist  on  it.  You 
know  that." 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  we  are  good  friends  enough 
for  that,  Fiammetta." 

"  Good  friends !  "  The  phrase  did  not 
sound  aright  to  Fiammetta ;  it  seemed  to 
separate  him  from  her.  Good  friends !  and 
was  that  all  ?  Well,  was  it  not  enough  ? 
What  more  did  she  expect  ?  Ah  !  what  she 
expected  —  what  was  possible  —  was  one 
thing ;  what  she  longed  for  —  what  her 
spirit  blindly  desired,  in  spite  of  all  proba 
bility,  of  all  hope  —  was  something  so  very 
different ;  to  which  mere  friendship,  sweet 
as  it  was,  was  but  a  mockery  and  a  delu 
sion.  No  ;  her  heart  cried  out  for  more  — 
infinitely  more  —  but  she  said,  — 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  that  we  are  friends." 

They  took  their  way  towards  the  Casetta, 
each  oppressed  with  thought,  and  saying  al 
most  nothing.  As  they  arrived,  they  saw 
come  out  of  the  house  the  figure  of  a  young 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  187 

man  in  uniform.  He  advanced  rapidly  to 
wards  them,  and  cried,  "  Fiammetta  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  she,  "  Andrea,  is  that  you  ? 
Where  did  you  come  from  ?  This  is  Count 
Sterroni,"  she  added ;  and  he  lifted  his  hat 
and  saluted  Marco  stiffly,  and  Marco  re 
turned  his  salutation.  Then  turning  to 
Marco,  she  said,  "  It  is  my  cousin,  Andrea." 

"And  where  did  you  come  from?"  she 
cried. 

"  I  have  just  come  over  from  the  Fosse. 
I  had  a  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  days.  I 
arrived  at  home  this  morning,  and  have  come 
over  to  see  aunt  Gigia." 

^And  you  are  well? " 

"  Very  well ;  and  you  ?  " 

"  Very  well." 

He  was  a  good-looking  young  fellow  of 
apparently  some  twenty-three  years  of  age, 
well  built,  stout,  bronzed  in  the  sun,  and 
wearing  the  uniform,  low-brimmed  hat,  and 
streaming  green  feathers  of  the  BersaglierL 
He  took  Fiammetta's  hand,  shook  it  warmly, 
looked  her  steadily  in  the  face,  and  said,  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Fiammetta,  and  I 
hope  you  are  half  as  glad  to  see  me." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  —  certainly,  of 
course,"  said  she ;  but  there  was  a  shadow 


FIAMMETTA. 

of  anxiety  and  trouble  in  her  face,  and  the 
words  did  not  somehow  ring  honestly,  as  if 
she  were  really  glad  to  see  him.  He  seemed 
a  little  disappointed  at  her  want  of  eager 
ness,  and  hesitated,  and  looked  at  Marco. 

Marco  saw  that  he  was  in  their  way  — 
at  all  events  in  Andrea's  way  —  and  only 
added  to  their  embarrassment  by  his  pres 
ence.  He  therefore  at  once  took  his  leave, 
shook  hands  with  Fiammetta,  and  said,  — 

"  I  will  leave  the  picture  here  to-night  to 
dry  thoroughly.  To-morrow  I  will  come 
again.  Meantime  I  leave  you  to  your  cousin, 
for  you  will  doubtless  have  much  to  say  to 
each  other.  Good-night,  and  rivederci  to 
morrow  ; "  and  bowing  to  Andrea,  he  de 
parted. 

"  Who  is  this  cousin  ?  "  he  thought.  "  This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  heard  of  him.  Why 
did  Fiammetta  never  mention  him  to  me  ? 
A  good-looking  fellow,  too.  I  wonder,"  and 
he  wondered  a  great  many  things  in  the 
vager  as  he  made  his  way  home. 

When  the  morning  came  he  was  still  won 
dering  ;  all  sorts  of  notions  flitted  across  his 
mind.  Was  it  possible  that  they  had  been 
not  only  cousins,  but  lovers  ?  Ah  no !  he 
could  not  believe  that.  Andrea  might  have 


FIAMMETTA.  189 

been  a  lover  to  her,  who  knows  ?  but  she  — 
no,  she  never  could  have  been  his  lover. 
Why  not  ?  He  did  not  see  clearly  why  not ; 
but  he  felt  that  it  was  not  probable  —  no, 
nor  even  possible. 

After  lingering  about  the  Villa  for  a  time, 
as  the  usual  hour  at  which  he  went  to  the 
Casetta  returned,  he  felt  a  sort  of  inward 
necessity  to  go  there.  He  had  nothing  to  do 
at  the  Villa.  He  was  bored  by  himself,  and 
almost  without  a  decided  intention  he  took 
the  same  road  that  he  had  travelled  so  often, 
and  slowly  wandered  along,  pausing  now  and 
then,  and  then  again  going  on  again.  He 
was  an  hour  later  than  usual  when  he  came 
in  sight  of  the  house,  and  here  he  stopped. 
"  Why  should  I  go  there  to  interrupt  them?" 
he  asked  himself.  "  I  shall  only  be  in  the 
way.  They  will  have  so  much  to  talk  over. 
Better  leave  them  alone  to-day  at  least.  To 
morrow  perhaps  he  will  be  gone." 

While  he  was  thus  debating  the  question 
with  himself,  he  saw  a  woman's  figure  ad 
vancing  towards  him  through  the  trees,  and 
hidden  partially  by  them.  He  thought  at 
first  it  might  be  Fiammetta ;  but  as  it  drew 
near,  he  saw  that  it  was  Gigia.  She  came 
forward  to  him,  and  after  saying  good-morn- 


190  FIAMMETTA. 

ing,  she  hesitated  and  seemed  so  embarrassed 
that  Marco  asked  her  if  anything  was  the 
matter. 

"No,  signer,  not  exactly,  and  —  yes,  I 
don't  know  how  properly  to  say  what  I  mean. 
But"  — 

"But  what,  Gigia;  speak  out  frankly, 
what  is  it?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  displeased  with 
what  I  say." 

"  Oh  no  ;  but  tell  me  at  once." 

"  Well,  signor,  I  have  been  waiting  to  see 

you  for  more  than  an  hour,  for  I  wanted  to 

ask  you  —  you  will  not  be  displeased,  I  hope 

- 1  wanted  to  ask  you  not  to  come  to-day, 

if  you  please." 

"  Certainly,  I  won't  come,  if  you  wish. 
But  what  does  this  mean,  Gigia?  Speak  out, 
my  good  woman,  and  tell  me  frankly  what 
you  have  to  say." 

"  Well,  signor,  since  you  permit  me,  it  is 
this  —  you  do  not  know  anything  about  it, 
I  know  —  but  while  Andrea  is  there,  I  am 
afraid  that  there  might  be  trouble  if  you 
came." 

"  But  why  should  there  be  trouble  ?  He 
seemed  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  Ah,  signor,  you  do  not  know,  and  I  must 


FIAMMETTA.  191 

tell  you.  Andrea  is  Fiammetta's  cousin,  and 
they  grew  up  together  as  boy  and  girl,  and 
as  he  grew  older,  and  got  to  be  a  man,  he 
fell  in  love  with  her  and  wanted  her  to  marry 
him.  That  was  all  very  foolish,  of  course. 
They  were  too  young  to  marry,  and  he  had 
no  means  to  support  her,  and  besides  that, 
Fiammetta,  though  she  was  friendly  to  him, 
never  thought  of  him  in  that  way  —  oh  no, 
signor.  She  repulsed  him  very  firmly,  and 
said  if  he  ever  talked  to  her  of  love,  she 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  even  as 
a  friend.  He  must  be  content  with  that. 
But  he  was  not  content,  and  he  follows  her 
about  and  annoys  her  with  his  love-making. 
At  last  he  was  drawn  for  the  army,  and  was 
forced  to  go  away  and  leave  Fiammetta  free, 
and  now  it  is  a  long  time  since  she  has  seen 
him  until  he  came  yesterday,  and  this  morn 
ing  he  again,  so  Fiammetta  says,  persecuted 
her  and  renewed  his  love-talk,  and  Fiam 
metta  told  him  once  for  all  she  would  not 
have  him,  and  then  he  grew  very  angry,  and 
said  it  was  all  on  account  of  your  coming 
here,  and  he  abused  you,  and  said  you  only 
wanted  to  ruin  Fiammetta,  that  you  had 
stolen  her  from  him,  and  that  when  he  saw 
you  he  would  give  you  a  piece  of  his  mind. 


192  FIAMMETTA. 

He  was  very  angry,  and  I  hope  you  will  ex 
cuse  him.  He  did  not  mean  all  that  he  said ; 
but  he  is  quick-tempered,  and  I  thought  —  I 
thought  it  would  be  best  that  you  and  he 
should  not  meet,  and  Fiammetta  said,  too, 
'Don't  let  II  SignorConte  come  to-day  as  he 
promised,  and  please  let  him  know  why,  for 
I  am  afraid  of  —  I  know  not  what,'  and  so  I 
came,  and  here  I  have  waited  for  you  to  tell 
you  this." 

"  And  are  you  sure  that  Fiammetta  does 
not  love  him,  and  that  he  will  not  finally 
persuade  her  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  not.  He  is  a  good 
youth,  and  we  all  like  him,  and  we  thought 
that  she  could  not  do  better  than  to  marry 
him  ;  but  she  will  not  hear  of  it,  and  it  ex 
cites  her  so  to  speak  of  it  that  we  are  con 
tent  to  hold  our  tongues.  No,  signer,  that 
will  never  be.  When  Fiammetta  has  taken 
anything  into  her  head,  she  has  taken  it 
there  forever.  She  is  a  very  good  girl,  but 
there  is  no  persuading  her  against  anything 
when  she  has  set  her  heart  on  it.  She 
would  willingly  accept  Andrea  as  a  friend, 
but  never  —  never  as  a  lover." 

"  Perhaps  with  time,"  said  Marco. 

"  No,  signor,  it  is  of  no  use.     She  is  like 


FIAMMETTA.  193 

her  mother  in  that.  You  will  excuse  me, 
signer,  will  you  not  ?  and  you  will  not  come 
to  the  house  to-day,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  You  have  done  very  right,  Gigia,  and 
I  thank  you.  No ;  I  will  go  back,  and  will 
return  after  Andrea  has  gone  away.  How 
long  does  he  remain  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  away  to-morrow,  signor.  He 
is  obliged  to.  His  leave  of  absence  is  up, 
and  he  must  go." 

"Tell  Fiammetta  not  to  be  troubled.  I 
will  keep  out  of  his  way  and  hers." 

"  And  you  excuse  me,  Signor  Conte  ?  " 
"  Excuse  you !     I  thank  you,  rather." 
So  saying,  they  separated,  each  going  their 
own  way.     On  his  return  home  Marco  found 
a  letter  from  his  friend  Carlo-,  which  ran  as 
follows :  — 

MY  DEAR  MARCO,  —  Many  thanks  for 
your  letter,  which  I  received  a  day  or  two 
ago.  I  read  a  great  deal  between  its  lines 
which  is  not  openly  said,  and  I  am  persuaded 
that  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  come  to  you 
and  give  you  a  little  good  advice,  not  only 
about  your  picture,  which  I  am  glad  to  hear 
is  so  successful,  but  about  other  matters  of 
even  more  importance.  I  knew  you  would 

13 


194  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

make  a  good  picture  if  you  gave  yourself  up 
to  your  true  inspiration  for  the  ideal  and 
the  poetic ;  but  I  did  not  think  you  would 
find  the  Naiad  you  sought  for.  I  shall  be 
curious  to  see  her.  If  she  is  all  you  say,  she 
is,  indeed,  a  rara  avis.  They  do  not  alight 
by  every  brookside,  nor  are  ordinarily  to  be 
found  among  rustics.  But  the  world  is  full 
of  wonders.  Meantime,  you  will  forgive 
me,  as  far  as  the  rustic  Naiad  herself  is  con 
cerned,  if,  despite  all  your  enthusiasms,  I  take 
her  with  a  good  many  grains  of  salt.  How 
ever,  I  am  ready  to  be  converted.  We  shall 
see. 

I  have  done  little  or  nothing  this  sum 
mer,  and  have  been  travelling  about  in  Ger 
many.  But  I  will  tell  you  all  about  my 
journeyings  and  experiences  when  we  meet. 
I  have  seen  so  many  people,  and  been  dinned 
to  death  by  so  much  talk  and  so  much  clat 
ter  at  hotels,  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  to  a 
quiet  place,  away  from  all  this  vanity  and 
vexation,  with  a  friend.  So  count  on  me  ; 

I  shall  arrive  at  N on  Wednesday,  and 

will  at  once  come  to  you.  Please  tell  Pas- 
quale  to  be  there  to  meet  me  at  the  evening 
train  from  Bologna  at  six  o'clock.  I  think 
it  arrives  at  that  time ;  but  he  will  know. 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  195 

A  rivederci,  then,  and  believe  me  as  ever, 
your  affectionate  CARLO  FBANZINI. 

Marco  was  delighted.  His  friend  —  his 
best  friend  —  would  be  here  in  ^three  days. 
He  had  great  confidence  in  his  judgment, 
and  he  meant  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  all 
that  was  weighing  on  him,  and  to  take  his 
counsel.  "  What  will  he  think  ?  what  will 
he  say  ?  Of  course  I  know  what  he  will 
think  at  first,  but  what  will  he  say  at  last  ? 
That  is  the  question." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WHAT  took  place  at  the  Casetta  after 
Marco  had  left  was  this.  Andrea,  after  his 
long  absence,  had  come  back  full  of  hope  — 
for  when  are  a  lover's  hopes  utterly  crushed  ? 
He  hoped  that  absence  might  have  changed 
her  feelings  towards  him.  He  had  seen  more 
of  the  world,  had  developed  in  character  and 
spirit  since  she  had  seen  him.  He  thought 
his  uniform  itself  might  produce  an  effect 
upon  her.  He  had  done  well,  and  been 
praised,  and  was  now  a  sergeant,  and  was 
proud  of  his  shoidder-straps.  He  was  no 
more  a  mere  rustic,  but  an  officer,  and  on 
the  way  to  advancement  in  the  best  corps  of 
Italy.  He  could  talk  better  and  express 
himself  better  than  before ;  and  there  was 
nothing  like  despair  about  him  when  he 
again  saw  Fiammetta.  The  evening  was 
spent  in  the  house,  talking  over  all  family 
matters  and  listening  to  his  experiences, 
which  suffered  no  diminution  in  his  recount 
ing,  and  all  went  on  in  a  friendly  way. 


FIAMMETTA.  197 

But  the  next  morning  he  asked  Fiammetta 
to  walk  with  him.  She  could  not  well  refuse, 
though  she  feared  what  might  be  the  result. 
Go,  however,  she  did ;  and  they  took  an  op 
posite  direction  from  the  Naiad's  Nook,  so 
that  she  might  run  no  chance  of  meeting 
Marco.  But  it  was  in  the  early  morning, 
and  she  knew  that  Marco  would  not  come, 
if  he  came  at  all,  before  the  afternoon,  so 
that  there  were  hours  before  them. 

They  had  got  but  a  little  distance  from  the 
house,  when  Andrea  said,  turning  abruptly 
to  her,  "  Who  was  that  Count  that  was  with 
you  yesterday  ?  and  what  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

The  manner  of  the  question  was  offensive ; 
but  she  answered  quietly,  "  It  is  Conte  Marco 
Sterroni.  He  has  been  painting  a  picture  of 
the  torrent  up  beyond  the  house." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Andrea.  "  And  how  long  has 
he  been  coming  here  ?  " 

"  For  some  weeks  he  has  been  painting,  if 
you  mean  that." 

"I  have  seen  his  picture.  Who  did  he 
paint  that  figure  from?  " 

"  From  me.  He  asked  me  to  be  his  model, 
and  Nonna  had  no  objection  ;  and  I  saw  no 
reason  why  I  should  not  assist  him,  and  I  sat 
for  it." 


198  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

"  Ah  !  You  see  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  be  his  model  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  see  a  good  many  reasons." 

"  I  do  not." 

"I  suppose  he  flattered  you,  and  made 
love  to  you,  and  made  you  think  —  well,  God 
knows  what  he  made  you  think." 

"He  neither  flattered  nor  made  love  to 
me." 

"  Ah,  that  is  very  well  to  say.  You  spent 
weeks  there  with  him  in  the  woods  all  alone. 
That  you  admit.  Well,  it  hasn't  a  very 
good  look.  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  Andrea,"  said  she,  u  I  do  not  know  what 
right  you  have  to  question  me  in  this  way. 
I  do  not  like  it.  If  you  were  not  an  old 
friend,  I  should  tell  you  that  you  are  very 
impertinent." 

"  You  are  ruining  your  reputation  out 
here  in  the  woods  day  after  day  with  a  Sig- 
nor  Conte,  as  you  call  him.  Who  knows 
what  you  have  been  about  ?  Do  you  dream 
he  will  ever  marry  you?  Ah,  I  think  so, 
Signora  Contessa,  vi  faccio  un  inchino,  as 
they  say  in  the  play.  No,  no  !  he  will  never 
do  that  —  not  he.  What  then  will  he  do 
except  ruin  you  ?  and  you  are  sucli  a  fool  as 


FIAMMETTA.  199 

not  to  see  it.  He  is  a  poor  miserable  scoun 
drel  —  that  is  what  I  think  of  him  —  to  wile 
you  on  to  this." 

The  blood  mounted  into  Fiammetta's  face, 
and  her  eyes  were  aflame.  She  could  bear 
it  as  long  as  he  spoke  of  her,  for  she  felt 
that  she  had  been  perhaps  foolish ;  but  when 
he  used  such  expressions  towards  Marco,  she 
could  not  bear  it. 

"  Addio,  Andrea,"  she  said.  "  I  will  talk 
with  you  no  longer.  I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  you.  You  have  no  respect  for  any 
body,  and  the  sooner  you  leave  here  the  bet 
ter.  Addio  ;  I  will  see  you  no  more." 

So  saying,  she  rapidly  left  him.  He  ran 
after  her,  overtook  her,  and  strove  to  stop 
her.  She  struggled  to  get  away  from  him ; 
but  he  seized  her  round  the  waist,  and  then 
catching  both  her  arms  in  his  strong  clutch, 
held  her  to  him  face  to  face. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  shall  not 
leave  me.  Do  you  not  see,  Fiammetta,  that 
I  love  you;  that  you  are  all  the  world  to 
me  ;  that  I  am  eaten  up  with  jealousy ;  that 
I  am  afraid  to  lose  you?  I  will  not  say 
anything  to  offend  you.  Listen  to  me.  I 
love  you,  and  I  cannot  bear  even  the  thought 
that  any  one  else  should  have  you." 


200  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Enough,  enough,  Andrea.  Loose  me ; 
let  me  go." 

"No,  no!  Fiammetta,  dearest  Fiammetta, 
I  will  not  let  you  go.  You  are  mine ;  you 
must  be  mine.'* 

"  I  am  not  yours,  and  I  never  will  be 
yours.  Do  you  think  you  can  force  me  by 
violence  to  love  you  ?  I  have  told  you  over 
and  over  again  I  do  not  and  I  cannot  love 
you.  I  hoped  that  you  remembered  this, 
and  that  we  might  be  friends ;  but  unless 
you  let  me  go,  we  will  not  even  be  that." 

All  his  answer  was  to  draw  her  to  him, 
and  kiss  her  on  the  lips. 

"  Shame  !  beast !  "  she  cried.  "  I  hate 
you  !  let  me  go  !  " 

"  No  ;  you  shall  not  go  till  I  tell  you  all 
I  feel." 

She  struggled  with  him  without  speaking. 
At  last  he  let  her  go.  She  started  back. 

"  I  will  never  forgive  you,"  she  said. 
I  "  You  have  insulted  me.  *I  will  tell  my 
grandfather  and  my  grandmother,  and  they 
shall  drive  you  from  the  house." 

The  recollection  of  that  kiss  of  Marco's 
came  over  her.  Andrea  had  profaned  it,  and 
this  she  could  not  forgive  him.  In  her  out 
raged  sense  she  hated  him  for  the  moment, 


FIAMMETTA.  201 

and  would  willingly  have  struck  him  dead 
at  her  feet.  Then  she  broke  down,  and  cried 
and  sobbed  like  a  child,  and  stammered  out 
convulsively,  "Oh,  I  could  not  have  be 
lieved  it ;  I  could  not  have  believed  it.  Oh, 
Andrea,  why  did  you  do  this  ?  0  Dio  mio  ! 
Dio  mio  !  " 

Her  weeping  overcame  him  more  than  her 
passion.  It  calmed  him.  He  implored  her 
to  forgive  him.  He  was  not  master  of  him 
self.  He  did  not  mean  to  hurt  her.  She 
held  up  her  arms  piteously  to  him.  The 
marks  of  his  clench  were  red  upon  them. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  he  said 
again. 

"  Go  away  and  leave  me  !  "  she  said.  "  I 
cannot  endure  the  sight  of  you.  You  have 
hurt  me  infinitely  more  in  my  heart  than  in 
my  arms." 

"  Do  you  love  that  scoundrel  ?  "  cried  An 
drea,  his  anger  getting  again  the  better  of 
him. 

"  Whether  I  do  or  not,  you  have  no  right 
to  ask." 

"  So  you  confess  it  ?  " 

"  I  confess  nothing.  You  are  not  my  mas 
ter.  I  owe  you  no  confessions." 

"Let   him   look   out  for   himself,"   cried 


202  F1AMMETTA. 

Andrea.  "Let  him  not  come  across  my 
path,  Count  or  no  Count.  I  will  make  short 
work  of  him  if  I  see  him.  Damn  him,  and 
all  his  race  !  " 

"Andrea,"  she  cried,  "  if  you  dare  to  in 
sult  him,  or  to  touch  a  hair  of  his  head,  my 
curse  shall  be  on  you,  and  God's  curse.  If 
no  one  else  does,  I  will  avenge  him." 

"  You  will  avenge  him !  "  he  sneered  ; 
"  and  how,  I  pray  ?  " 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  and  you  will  see.  You 
think  because  I  am  a  weak  girl  that  I  can 
do  nothing.  Do  not  push  me  to  extremities. 
I  would  fain  be  friends  with  you  ;  but  if  you 
wish,  I  can  be  your  enemy  ;  and,  weak  as  I 
am,  I  will  bring  your  head  and  your  heart 
down  to  the  dust.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you." 

So  saying,  she  left  him,  and  he  did  not 
follow  her.  She  rushed  to  the  house,  wild 
and  haggard  with  excitement,  and  cried  to 
her  grandmother,  "  Andrea  has  insulted  me ! 
he  has  threatened  to  kill  the  Conte  if  he 
meets  him.  Run,  Nonna,  run  down  the 
road  ;  meet  him,  find  him,  and  tell  him  not 
to  come  or  there  will  be  a  quarrel !  Don't 
lose  a  moment,  Nonna.  Andrea  is  just  out 
there,"  pointing  to  the  spot  where  she  had 
left  him,  "  and  what  he  may  do  or  where  he 


FIAMMETTA.  203 

may  go  I  know  not.  But  he  is  very  angry 
and  very  excited.  He  is  jealous  of  the 
Conte,  and  I  am  afraid  of  what  may 
happen." 

So  Gigia  ran  down,  met  the  Count,  and 
prevented  him  from  coming,  as  we  have 
seen. 

After  a  time  Andrea  returned  to  the  house, 
somewhat  calmed  and  somewhat  ashamed  of 
his  violent  conduct.  There  he  saw  Gigia, 
and  he  poured  out  his  griefs  to  her ;  and 
when  she  attempted  to  laugh  at  him  and  to 
show  him  that  his  jealousy  was  ridiculous,  — 
that  Marco  had  only  wished  Fiammetta  as  a 
model ;  that  he  had  always  been  perfectly 
proper  and  kind  and  gentle  ;  and  that  as  for 
his  making  love  to  her,  that  was  all  nonsense, 
there  was  nothing  between  them,  and  never 
had  been  and  never  would  be,  —  he  cried  : 

"  That  is  all  very  well ;  but  you  are  blind. 
I  see  it  all  as  plainly  as  this  tree  before  me, 
and  you  will  find  it  out  at  last.  Fiammetta 
is  no  longer  the  same  person  that  she  was. 
He  has  bewitched  her,  and  he  has  done  it 
for  no  good  purpose.  It  will  end  as  it  did 
with  her  mother,  you  mark  my  words.  He 
is  a  scoundrel,  and  that  is  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it,  and  he  means  to  ruin  her,  if  he 


204  FIAMMETTA. 

has  not  already  !  I  know  —  I  know  —  I 
know  ;  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk  to  me." 

"  It  is  all  miserable  jealousy  on  your  part," 
said  Gigia,  "  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  it.  You  have  insulted  and  frightened 
Fiammetta,  and  this  is  a  pretty  way  to  win 
her  love.  Why  did  you  not  hold  your  tongue  ? 
You  know  she  cannot  be  driven  in  that  way. 
The  Count  will  soon  be  gone,  and  if  you  had 
let  her  alone,  she  would  probably  have  come 
round  to  you  at  last.  But  now  you  have 
made  a  pretty  mess  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  I  have,"  he  said,  sullenly. 
"  But  it 's  done  ;  there  's  no  help  for  it  now. 
I  can't  undo  it." 

"  What  remains  for  you  to  do  is  to  go  and 
beg  her  pardon,  and  make  all  the  excuse  you 
can.  She  is  very  much  irritated  with  you, 
and  if  you  hope  ever  to  have  any  chance 
with  her,  you  must  go  to  her  at  once  and  be 
as  abject  as  possible.  There  is  no  use  in 
being  violent ;  that  is  no  way  to  win  her." 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  are  right ;  I 
will  do  as  you  say.  Will  you  call  her,  and 
tell  her  I  want  to  see  her?  " 

Gigia  went  up  to  Fiammetta's  room,  into 
which  she  had  locked  herself,  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  At  first  Fiammetta  did  not 


FIAMMETTA,  205 

answer.  She  had  thrown  herself  on  the  bed, 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillows,  and  was  weep 
ing  bitterly.  At  last,  after  Gigia  had  called 
her  over  and  over  again,  she  rose  and  opened 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  Fiammetta  mia  I  "  she  cried,  when 
she  saw  her,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Why 
are  you  crying  so  ?  Don't  fret  like  this,  my 
dearest  child.  It  is  all  really  nothing.  Yes, 
yes  ;  I  know  Andrea  was  violent,  and  lost 
his  temper  ;  but,  Madonna  mia  !  we  all  do 
that  at  times,  lie  has  told  me  all  about  it, 
Fiammetta  mia  !  and  he  is  very  sorry." 

"  He  may  well  be,"  said  Fiammetta. 

"  Well,  he  is,  dear  —  very,  very  sorry; 
and  he  wants  to  see  you  and  tell  you  so,  and 
to  beg  your  pardon.  Come  down  and  see 
him." 

"No!  "  said  Fiammetta,  sternly  ;  "I  will 
not.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him 
henceforward  or  forever." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  said  Gigia,  tenderly ; 
and  she  took  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  strove 
to  soothe  her.  "  He  did  not  mean  what  he 
said.  You  will  forgive  him  ?  " 

"No  !  "  said  Fiammetta,  "  I  will  not  for 
give  him.  He  insulted  me,  and  he  insulted 
the  Count ;  and  he  seized  me  and  kissed  me, 


206  FJAMMETTA. 

and  I  will  not  forgive  him.  You  may  go 
and  tell  him  so." 

"  Oh,  that  was  all  because  he  did  not  un 
derstand,  and  was  jealous  ;  and  nobody  is 
jealous  unless  they  love,  and  you  know  he 
loves  you." 

"  Loves  me  ?  loves  me,  indeed !  Then  I 
hate  him  all  the  more  because  of  that.  1 
never  gave  him  any  right,  and  I  will  not  have 
him,  and  you  may  tell  him  so,  an<}  I  will  not 
see  him.  It  is  of  no  use  trying  to  persuade 
me,  Nonna.  I  mean  to  stay  here  in  my 
room  till  he  has  gone." 

It  was  vain  to  oppose  her,  and  finally 
Gigia  gave  it  up,  and  went  down  and  told 
Andrea  that  she  would  not  see  him,  and  she 
advised  him  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do 
was  to  go  away.  "  She  will  soften  in  time 
towards  you  ;  but  now  it  is  useless  to  do  any 
thing —  you  will  only  provoke  her  more. 
If  you  take  my  advice,"  she  said,  "  you  will 
go  away  at  once,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me  — 
se  e  llosa  Jiorira,  as  the  saying  goes." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right.  It  is  hard  on 
me  —  very  hard  ;  but  I  was  a  fool.  I  might 
have  known  better." 

"  Yes ;  you  have  n't  done  very  well  for 
yourself." 


F I  AM M ETTA.  207 

"  Well,  I  will  go ;  but  let  me  wait  here 
till  to-morrow  morning.  Perhaps  she  will 
think  better  of  it  by  that  time." 

"  Well,  stay  if  you  choose ;  but  I  do  not 
advise  it." 

So  he  remained,  in  no  very  pleasant  con 
dition  of  mind  —  angry  with  himself,  angry 
with  her,  angry  with  Marco  —  irritated,  sorry, 
and  not  knowing  what  to  do.  Fiammetta  was 
true  to  her  resolution.  She  remained  in  her 
room  all  day  —  fleeing  there  for  silence,  and 
to  hide  herself,  like  a  wounded  thing.  For 
all  that  Andrea  had  said,  fiercely  as  she  had 
rejected  it,  weighed  on  her  thought  and  troub 
led  her  deeply ;  and  a  pain  came  across  her 
that  she  had  never  felt  before  so  acutely. 

Nothing  was  said  to  Antonio ;  and  when 
supper  came,  he  asked  for  Fiammetta,  and 
why  she  did  not  come  down,  and  he  was  told 
that  she  was  not  well,  and  had  a  bad  head 
ache,  and  was  lying  down,  and  that  it  would 
be  best  not  to  wake  her  ;  and  "  I  will  take 
her  up  something  to  eat  by  and  by,"  said 
Gigia,  "  when  I  am  sure  she  is  awake.  We  'd 
better  leave  her  to  rest  now." 

It  was  a  melancholy  supper  —  all  the  life 
had  gone  out  of  the  house  ;  but  they  got 
through  it  without  a  suspicion  on  the  part  of 
Antonio,  and  so  far  so  well. 


208  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

In  the  morning  Andrea  went  up  and 
knocked  at  her  door. 

"  It  is  I  —  Andrea,"  he  cried.  "  I  am  go 
ing  away,  and  have  come  to  bid  you  good- 
by.  I  am  very,  very  sorry.  Try  to  find 
some  excuse  for  me.  Come  and  shake  hands 
with  me,  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

"  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "  and  good- 
by ;  "  but  she  would  not  come  out  and  see 
him. 

After  she  learned  from  Gigia  that  he  had 
gone,  she  came  down  ;  but  a  change  had 
come  over  her.  She  said  little,  lingered 
about  the  house  or  in  the  grounds  near  it, 
so  as  to  have  it  always  in  view,  lest  Marco 
should  come  and  find  her  gone,  and  waited 
vainly  for  she  knew  not  what.  But  Marco 
did  not  come,  and  it  was  a  miserable  day. 

The  next  morning,  as  she  was  standing  at 
the  edge  of  the  wood  watching  for  him,  she 
saw  the  donkey  approaching  through  the 
trees.  Her  heart  leaped  up  within  her,  and 
she  smiled  a  happy  smile,  and  clapped  her 
hands,  and  cried  to  herself,  "  He  has  come  !  " 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Instead  of  Marco, 
as  the  donkey  drew  near,  she  saw  it  was  the 
fattore,  Pietro,  and  her  heart  went  down 
again. 


FIAMMETTA.  209 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Pietro,  gayly. 
"  How  are  you,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"  Well,  thank  you,  Pietro ;  and  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  thank  you." 

"  And  the  Signer  Conte  ?  " 

"  Well,  too.  He  has  sent  me  up  to  bring 
down  his  picture  and  all  his  things,  as  he 
could  not  come  himself,  and  he  bade  me 
give  you  this  letter." 

She  seized  it  with  impatience,  which  she 
could  not  conceal,  opened  it,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

DEAR  FIAMMETTA,  —  I  could  not  come 
myself  this  morning,  and  you  will  know 
why.  If  you  do  not,  your  grandmother  will 
tell  you.  So  I  have  sent  Pietro  for  the  pic 
ture,  which  I  will  thank  you  to  give  him, 
with  the  paint-box  and  all  the  other  things, 
that  I  shall  not  need  there,  now  that  the 
picture  is  finished.  I  hope  to  see  you  very 
soon,  when  your  cousin  has  gone,  and  I  sup 
pose  he  will  go  to-day,  from  what  your  grand 
mother  told  me.  But  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  come  to-morrow,  as  I  am  expect 
ing  a  great  friend  of  mine  to  arrive,  who  is 
coming  to  stay  with  me  for  a  week  or  so.  I 
shall,  with  your  permission,  bring  him  to  see 


210  FIAMMETTA. 

you.  A  rivederci,  then,  my  dear  Fiammetta, 
with  all  best  wishes,  from  your  affectionate 
friend,  MARCO  STERKONI. 

There  was  nothing  that  gave  her  any  sat 
isfaction  in  this  letter  except  the  words,  "  I 
hope  to  see  you  soon,"  and  "  Your  affection 
ate  friend."  All  the  rest  was  a  blow  to  her. 
A  friend  coming  —  who  was  it  ?  Ah,  if  any 
friend  was  coming,  that  would  end  all  the 
old  happy  course  of  things,  no  matter  who 
he  might  be.  She  turned  to  Pietro  and 
said,  — 

"  The  Signer  Conte  tells  me  that  he  is  ex 
pecting  a  friend  to  stay  with  him.  Do  you 
know  who  it  is  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  is  the  Signor  Carlo  Fran- 
zini  —  one  of  his  oldest  friends.  He  got  a 
letter  from  him  the  night  before  last,  telling 
him  he  would  be  here  to-morrow.  A  good 
friend  lie  is,  too.  It  was  he  who  took  the 
Signor  Padrone  away  with  him  to  Rome, 
some  ten  years  ago,  and  first  taught  him 
how  to  paint.  The  Conte  is  very  fond  of 
him." 

"  Ah  yes,"  said  Fiammetta.  "  I  have 
heard  him  speak  of  this  friend  often." 

"  The    signer   told  me  that  your  cousin 


FIAMMETTA.  211 

Andrea  was  here,  and  told  me  to  ask  if  lie 
was  gone." 

"Yes  ;  he  has  gone.  Please  tell  the  Signor 
Conte  that  he  is  gone.  He  went  away  yes 
terday  morning." 

"  He  has  grown  to  be  a  fine  young  fellow, 
I  hear,  and  has  made  a  good  step  forward  in 
his  company.  They  tell  me  he  is  a  sergeant. 
Is  that  true?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Fiammetta. 

"  And  he  wore  his  uniform  when  he  was 
here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him  with  his 
green  feathers.  I  suppose  he  was  proud 
enough  of  them  and  of  his  advancement. 
Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  he  is  getting  on  so 
well.  I  always  liked  him.  He  was  a  favor 
ite  of  yours  too,  Fiammetta,  I  believe.  Was 
he  not  ?  " 

"  We  are  cousins." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  know  that,  and  perhaps 
will  be  something  more  some  day.  Eh, 
Fiammetta  ?  But  I  want  to  pry  into  no 
secrets.  What  will  be,  will  be !  and,  as 
the  old  proverb  says,  4  Fate  comes  at  last 
to  the  slow  and  the  fast.'  Well,  well !  I 
only  wish  for  the  best  for  you,  Fiammetta." 


212  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes ;  but 
Andrea  is  nothing  but  my  cousin,  and  never 
will  be." 

"  Well,  well !  Here  I  am  chatting  and 
the  time  is  going,  and  I  must  go  in  and  see 
your  grandmother  and  grandfather,  and  get 
the  picture." 

Fiammetta  accompanied  him,  and  all  the 
things  were  brought  out  and  put  upon  the 
donkey,  and  after  a  little  chat  with  Gigia, 
Pietro  went  off  with  them. 

Fiammetta  watched  him  go,  with  a  sad 
sinking  of  the  heart.  As  long  as  they  were 
with  her,  she  knew  that  Marco  would  return  ; 
but  now,  even  if  he  came  back,  it  would  be 
only  now  and  then,  and  not  as  before.  Be 
sides,  she  had  a  strong  presentiment  that  the 
arrival  of  his  friend  Carlo  would  change  all 

O 

their  relations.  There  would,  at  best,  be  only 
a  meeting,  at  intervals  more  or  less  long. 
He  must  give  his  time  to  his  guest,  and 
when  they  met  it  would  probably  be  only 
in  the  presence  of  this  friend,  who  would, 
perhaps,  influence  Marco  against  her,  and 
perhaps  would  carry  him  away  with  him  as 
he  did  before.  Nothing  was  clear  to  her  — 
a  cloud  was  everywhere  on  her  horizon, 
rising  slowly  and  threatening  to  cover  the 
whole  sky. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

CARLO  arrived  on  Wednesday  night,  and 
was  greeted  heartily  by  Marco.  He  was 
thoroughly  glad  to  see  his  old  friend ;  and 
after  supper  they  talked  together  of  Carlo's 
travels  and  experiences  since  they  parted, 
and  of  old  friends  and  how  they  were,  and 
where  they  were.  Nothing  very  intimate  was 
touched  upon  the  first  night ;  and  as  Carlo 
was  tired  with  his  long  day's  journey,  he 
soon  went  to  bed,  and  left  Marco  to  his  soli 
tary  meditations. 

The  next  morning  they  wandered  about 
and  visited  all  the  old  haunts,  and  walked 
through  the  woods  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
then  returned  to  the  house. 

"  Now,"  said  Carlo,  "  let  me  see  your  pic 
ture."  Marco  went  into  his  room,  brought 
it  out  and  set  it  on  the  easel ;  and  Carlo  took 
a  long,  careful  look  at  it.  Then  he  rose,  and 
patting  Marco  on  his  back,  said,  "  Bravo  !  I 
like  it  immensely.  It  is  full  of  poetry,  and 
has  the  essential  romantic  charm  that  should 


214  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

belong  to  such  a  conception.  Your  land 
scape  is  admirable,  the  composition  is  very 
harmonious,  the  color  is  good,  the  drawing 
good.  But  what  strikes  me  most  of  all  is  the 
Naiad  herself.  Charming !  my  dear  fellow, 
charming!  full  of  grace  and  naivet£  and 
simplicity,  and  with  a  tender  pensiveness  of 
expression  and  character.  That,  of  course, 
came  from  you  ;  your  model  never  had  it,  I 
am  sure." 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  wrong,"  said  Marco. 
"  It  is  simply  a  portrait  of  the  sweetest  and 
most  charming  creature  you  ever  saw.  No ; 
I  have  not  flattered  her,  though  you  shake 
your  head  —  I  have  not,  really.  When  you 
see  her,  you  will  find  that  I  have  not  even 
done  her  justice." 

"You  were  a  lucky  dog  to  find  such  a 
model,"  said  Carlo,  smiling.  "  Whether  I 
shall  see  all  that  you  saw  in  her  is  another 
question,  and  I  still  say  your  imagination 
lent  her  the  charm  that  you  reproduced  in 
this  figure.  Your  imagination,  or  something 
more  personal  of  feeling  and  sentiment.  Of 
course,  all  tilings  are  as  they  seem  to  us,  not 
as  they  really  are  ;  and  you  saw  her  through 
deeply-colored  glasses,  if  you  tell  me  she 
looked  to  you  thus." 


FIAMMETTA.  215 

"  I  painted  what  I  saw  only.  Of  course, 
I  don't  know  that  she  will  look  like  this  to 
you.  To  me  she  did.  You  shall  see  her 
yourself  and  judge.  The  fact  is,  that  the 
whole  scene  is  a  direct  transcript  from  na 
ture,  with  scarcely  a  change.  I  was  not 
thinking  about  the  subject.  It  was  only 
vaguely  in  my  mind,  when,  one  day  saunter 
ing  through  the  woods,  I  suddenly  saw  this 
scene  before  me.  There  was  the  torrent, 
and  the  woods  just  as  I  have  painted  them, 
and  there  sat  my  Naiad  on  one  of  the  boul 
ders,  just  as  she  sits  there,  singing  to  herself. 
I  could  not  believe  my  eyes  at  first.  I  stood 
and  gazed,  enchanted.  She  was  not  aware 
of  my  presence.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been 
transported  into  another  world.  Then  a 
bough  on  which  I  stepped  broke,  and  she 
saw  me." 

"  And  she  vanished,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  I  had  met  her  before,  and  she  rec 
ognized  me,  and  was  not  shy.  And  we  sat 
down  and  talked,  and  the  end  of  it  was 
that  she  agreed  to  come  and  sit  as  my 
model." 

"  No,  that  does  not  look  as  if  she  was  very 
shy." 

"  No,  she  is  not  shy.     I  understand  your 


216  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

innuendo,  but  you  are  wrong.     She  is  any 
thing  but  a  coquette.     She  is  a  simple  child 

—  a  wild  flower  that  has  grown  up  in  the 
woods.     She  is   neither  shy  nor   conscious. 
She  has  none  of  the  arts  that  we  know  so 
well  in  the  city.     She  assented  to  my  propo 
sition  that  she    should   sit  to  me  there  as 
my  model,  just  as  simply  as  she  would  have 
gone  to  fill  me  a  cup  of  water  to  drink  had  I 
asked  her.    Besides,  I  made  it  all  right  with 
the  old  people,  her  grandmother  and  grand 
father,  not  by  paying  them  anything,  you 
know  —  that  it  would  have  been  an  offence 
to  offer.     Everything   has  been  done  with 
their  knowledge   and  consent.     No  idea  of 
impropriety  ever  entered  into  their  heads, 
any  more  than  it  did  into  mine." 

"  Naive  people,  indeed,"  said  Carlo. 
"  Well,  there  was  no  impropriety." 
"No,  really?" 
"  No,  not  a  shadow." 

"  You  won't  tell  me  that  that  pretty  rus 
tic  came  to  sit  to  you  day  after  day  for  weeks 

—  for  you  must  have  been  weeks  at  your 
work  —  and   that  you  never  made  love  to 
her?" 

"No;  never." 

"  Do  you  mean  seriously  to  say  to  me  that 


FIAMMETTA.  217 

you  never  considered  her  in  any  other  light 
than  as  a  mere  model? " 

"  No,  to  be  honest,  I  can't  say  that.  She 
charmed  me.  I  became  fond  of  her.  I 
liked  to  hear  her  voice.  I  "  —  here  Marco 
paused,  and  looked  down  on  the  ground  and 
hesitated. 

"  I  see ;  you  fell  in  love  with  her.  Of 
course  you  did.  I  saw  that  in  your  letter.  I 
see  it  now  still  more  in  your  picture." 

"  To  own  the  honest  truth,  I  confess  it  was 
something  like  that.  Yes,  I  could  not  help 
it." 

"  And  she  —  she  fell  in  love  with  you,  I 
suppose  —  she  could  not  help  it  either." 

"  I  will  not  say  that." 

"  But  you  know  it  is  a  fact." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is." 

"  And  you  told  each  other  that  you  loved, 
and  all  these  delightful  days  were  merely  de 
voted  to  love-making?" 

"  No.  I  never  told  her  I  loved  her,  and 
she  never  told  me  she  loved  me." 

"  What!  do  you  mean  to  say  that  day 
after  day  you  and  she  sat  there  together,  and 
walked  together,  and  you  never  told  her  you 
loved  her,  and  never  took  any  liberties  of  a 
lover  with  her? " 


218  F 1 AM M ETTA. 

"  No !  I  never  even  kissed  her  but  once. 
She  was  so  confiding,  so  simple,  so  pure,  that 
I  took  an  oath  to  myself  that  until  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  marry  her,  I  never 
would  avow  my  love,  and  never  would  take 
advantage  of  her  or  lead  her  astray." 

"Till  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to 
marry  her !  Do  you  mean  seriously  to 
tell  me  that  you  ever  entertained  such  a 
thought?  I  could  not  suppose  you  would 
be  guilty  o£  such  folly  as  that  even  in 
thought ;  of  course,  in  fact  it  is  impossi 
ble." 

"  Why  impossible  ?  " 

"  Why  impossible  ?  You  know  as  well  as 
I.  I  am  willing  to  grant  all  you  say —  that 
she  is  beautiful,  pure,  simple,  naive — all 
that  you  will.  But,  after  all,  she  is  a  mere 
rustic,  without  education,  without  knowledge 
of  the  usages  of  the  world,  without  the  veneer 
(well,  call  it  veneer,  if  you  please)  of  civili 
zation.  She  looks  charming  here,  I  doubt 
not,  in  the  woods  —  all  her  graces  have  their 
fitting  framework ;  but  carry  her  to  Rome 
as  your  wife  —  carry  her  into  the  salon  and 
ball-room,  introduce  her  to  your  highly  civi 
lized  and  cultivated  friends  and  artificial  ac 
quaintances  of  the  world,  as  we  call  it  — 


FIAMMETTA.  219 

and  how  would  she  look  there  ?  This  wild 
creature  would  be  wholly  out  of  her  ele 
ment  ;  she  would  be  confused  and  gauche, 
and  offend  against  all  the  usages  of  society. 
She  would  be  wanting  in  all  tact,  in  all  un 
derstanding  of  the  world  into  which  you  in 
troduced  her,  and  the  scales  would  fall  from 
your  eyes ;  and  she  would  be  unhappy  and 
you  would  be  annoyed,  bored  to  the  utmost, 
and  be  aware  of  the  sad  mistake  you  had 
made.  And  then  would  come  reproaches 
and  scoldings,  and  lesson-giving  and  train 
ing  to  fit  her  for  her  new  life  ;  and  then,  per 
haps,  she  \vould  rebel,  or  perhaps  she  would 
suffer  and  be  silent,  and  daily  life  would  be 
a  weight  upon  you  both  to  kill  your  happi 
ness.  You  would  be  ashamed  of  her ;  not 
because  she  had  not  all  the  high  virtues  pos 
sible,  but  because  she  would  trip  over  all  the 
petty  convenances  of  society,  and  be  laughed 
at.  Oh,  the  world  is  very  hard !  and  it  would 
make  fun  of  you  and  her,  and  gossip  and 
chatter  and  buzz  about  you  like  flies,  and  in 
vain  you  would  try  to  drive  them  off." 

"  You  draw  a  hard  picture." 

"  I  draw  a  true  one." 

"  No  ;  I  think  not." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  say  there  would  be  any 


220  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

justice  in  all  this  criticism.  No ;  the  world 
is  not  just :  it  is  carping  and  cruel ;  but  there 
it  is.  We  have  to  take  it  for  what  it  is." 

"  But  she  would  soon  learn  all  that  the 
usages  of  society  require.  Of  course,  she  at 
first  might  make  blunders  and  get  laughed 
at ;  but  she  could  easily  be  taught  and 
trained." 

"  It  is  unpleasant  to  teach  and  train  one 
whom  we  love,  and  particularly  one's  wife. 
It  leads  to  constant  fault-finding,  and  fault 
finding  ruins  one's  peace  of  mind  and  dis 
courages  love,  and  irritates  even  the  best 
temper.  And  then,  again,  the  question  of 
birth  in  this  girl  is  a  serious  one.  Blood  al 
ways  speaks  out.  She  is  a  rustic,  but  little 
above  a  peasant,  and  do  what  you  will  she 
will  always  have  traces  of  that." 

"  No !  there  you  are  wrong.  She  is  not 
a  rustic.  She  is  a  born  lady.  When  you 
see  her  you  will  feel  it  in  her  every  word 
and  motion"  and  thought.  On  one  side,  her 
mother's,  she  is  of  no  high  birth  —  though 
she  was  an  exceptional  person,  too  —  but  on 
her  father's  side  she  comes  of  high  noble 
lineage." 

"  Pho  !  Nonsense  !  How  can  this  be  ? 
Who  was  her  father  ?  " 


F I  AM  MET  T A.  221 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  all  that  I  know  is  that 
he  was  a  nobleman,  a  person  of  education 
and  culture,  with  whom  her  mother  eloped, 
and  who  afterwards  abandoned  her." 

Then  Marco  told  the  story  of  Tonietta. 

"  That  is  a  sad  story  enough,"  said  Carlo. 
"  A  pitiable  one  ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  it 
rnends  matters  as  to  this  girl.  As  far  as  I 
understand  it,  she  is  illegitimate  ;  and  though 
this  is  not  her  fault,  the  world  will  visit  it 
on  her  as  if  it  was.  It  visits  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  and  mothers  on  the  innocent  children, 
and  thinks  it  is  obeying  Scripture.  Ah,  no ! 
believe  me,  my  friend,  this  will  never,  never 
do." 

"  I  have  heard  you,"  said  Marco  ;  "  but 
you  have  not  convinced  me.  I  have  said  all 
this  to  myself  over  and  over  again  ;  but  after 
all  I  feel  that  I  love.  Nothing  will  counter 
balance  that  in  my  heart.  I  care  little  for 
what  the  world  thinks  and  says.  I  do  not 
marry  to  satisfy  the  world,  but  myself.  All 
your  reasonings  are  good — are  unanswera 
ble  —  provided  my  object  in  marrying  is  to 
please  what  is  called  society.  But  what  do 
I  care  what  society  may  say  or  do,  provided 
I  am  happy  in  my  choice  ?  Its  approval 
would  not  make  me  happy  without  love. 


222  FIAMMETTA. 

Its  condemnation  would  not  make  me 
wretched  with  love.  Life  is  not  on  the  out 
side  ;  it  is  in  the  inside.  It  is  what  we  feel 
and  what  we  are  that  shapes  the  world  to  us, 
and  gladdens  us  with  sunshine  or  shadows 
us  with  gloom." 

"  Ah,  yes.  You  talk  as  a  man  in  love  al 
ways  talks.  Amor  brevis  furor  est.  Love 
is  a  brief  madness.  It  is  difficult  to  reason 
with  a  man  in  love." 

"  Real  love  is  a  permanent  insanity  —  not 
a  short  madness." 

"  I  know.  All  lovers  think  their  love  will 
last  forever.  They  will  madly  throw  away 
anything,  everything,  while  the  fit  is  on 
them  ;  and  then  when  it  is  too  late  mourn 
over  their  folly.  But  tell  me  one  thing, 
Marco ;  you  say  you  have  never  uttered  your 
love  to  this  girl  —  that  she  does  not  know 
you  love  her." 

"  Ah,  that  is  one  of  my  great  difficulties. 
I  have  never  told  her  I  loved  her  ;  but  of 
course  she  knows  it.  How  could  she  help 
knowing  it?  It  needed  no  words.  When 
one  loves,  it  speaks  out  in  every  tone  and  act. 
But  if  that  were  all,  it  would  be  easier  for 
me.  What  I  fear  —  why  should  I  say  fear  ? 
—  what  I  know  is,  that  she  loves  me  ;  and  if 


FIAMMETTA.  223 

this  be  so,  as  I  know  it  is,  what  can  I  do  ? 
If  I  leave  her,  I  shall  make  her  wretched. 
Poor  Fiammetta !  And  if  I  marry  her,  I 
shall  not  only  make  her  equally  unhappy  in 
the  end,  but  myself  too,  as  you  say.  I  can 
sacrifice  myself  easily.  I  should  get  over  it, 
for  I  should  have  other  and  absorbing  inter 
ests  and  occupations  to  engage  my  thoughts 
and  occupy  my  time.  But  this  is  not  the 
case  with  her.  She  must  remain  here  — 
alone  —  without  occupation  or  interest  ;  liv 
ing  on  the  past  —  hopeless  —  and  aggrieved. 
I  know,  I  know,  I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  this  before  ;  but  I  was  tempted,  and  I 
yielded." 

"  I  think,"  answered  Carlo,  "  you  very 
much  exaggerate  all  this.  I  dare  say  she 
has  taken  a  fancy  to  you.  She  sees  nobody 
of  your  rank  and  position,  and  she  is  flat 
tered  by  that,  and  I  dare  say  she  compares 
others  with  you,  greatly  to  your  advantage. 
I  dare  say,  too,  she  will  be  sorry  that  all  this 
little  idyl  has  come  to  an  end,  and  will 
think  much  about  you  ;  build  all  sorts  of 
castles  in  the  air,  perhaps  will  mope  about 
a  little  after  you  are  gone.  But  this  will 
all  pass.  This  is  but  a  little  episode,  —  a 
little  green  halting-place  on  a  long  march, 


224  FIAMMETTA. 

where  the  waters  tasted  sweet,  and  the 
shadow  was  grateful.  But  one  cannot  stay, 
and  one  does  not  stay,  in  such  halting-places  ; 
one  goes  on,  and  only  a  pleasant  memory 
is  left.  I  don't  think  you  need  trouble 
yourself  about  that.  It  would  be  an  act  of 
simple  madness  to  marry  her,  and  you  must 
promise  me  you  will  not  even  think  of  it ; 
at  all  events,  you  must  not  take  any  rash 
step  now.  There  is  always  time.  This  at 
least  you  must  promise.  Go  away,  leave 
this  place  ;  we  will  go  together  anywhere 
you  like.  Return  to  Rome,  occupy  yourself 
with  your  art ;  think  over  the  question 
coolly,  and  let  time  and  circumstance  have 
their  chance.  If  you  remain  of  the  same 
mind  next  summer,  after  you  have  thought  it 
all  over,  come  back  hero ;  see  her  again ;  see 
if  she  seems  to  you  the  same ;  and  if  she 
does,  I  will  oppose  you  no  longer." 

Marco  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
said,  "  Perhaps  you  are  right  after  all ;  it 
will  do  no  harm  to  give  myself  time.  If 
she  has  faith  in  me,  and  I  in  her,  we  can 
live  the  winter  out  easily  ;  at  all  events,  easy 
or  not,  we  can  live  it  out.  Yes ;  I  think  I 
can  promise  to  leave  all  as  it  is  at  present." 

After  all,  perhaps,  Marco  overstated  more 


F I  AM  M ETTA. 


225 


than  he  was  aware  all  his  feelings  in  this 
conversation,  leaning  towards  what  he  feared 
for  her  rather  than  what  he  felt  in  himself. 
He  was  undoubtedly  under  a  strong  impres 
sion,  and  submitted  to  its  charm.  That  he 
was  deeply  in  love  with  Fiammetta  was 
scarcely  true ;  rather,  that  he  had  a  warm 
sympathetic  feeling  towards  her  —  a  sense 
of  attraction  to  her  beauty,  a  tender  pity  for 
her  lot  —  which  he  represented  to  be  love. 
She  had  irresistibly  drawn  him  to  her  by 
many  little  threads,  which  seemed  to  him 
stronger  and  more  durable  than  they  per 
haps  really  were.  Whether  his  feeling  for 
her  would  stand  the  test  of  absence  and 
utter  change  of  occupation  was  the  question, 
and  the  moment  he  satisfied  himself  that  he 
was  not  sacrificing  her  ultimate  happiness, 
he  was  willing  to  leave  the  decision  of  all  to 
the  future.  We  are  so  much  the  victims  of 
accidents  and  circumstances,  that  we  often 
cannot  discriminate  truly  between  what  is 
permanent  and  what  is  temporary ;  and 
really  he  was  not  convinced  that  he  was  not 
under  an  illusion  of  the  moment.  More 
than  this,  the  question  of  marriage  had 
never  been  other  than  a  trouble  to  him. 
Unless  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  he 
thought  it  should  be  avoided. 


226  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

After  this  conversation,  he  felt  more  un 
willingness  to  go  to  the  Casetta ;  and  as  he 
had  a  good  excuse  in  the  fact  that  Carlo 
was  with  him,  he  refrained  from  returning 
for  several  days. 

Those  days  were  anything  but  happy  to 
Fiammetta.  She  watched  for  him  in  vain  : 
and  as  day  after  day  passed  and  he  came 
not,  she  began  to  be  greatly  troubled  in  her 
mind.  "It  was  all  Andrea,"  she  said.  "  He 
has  driven  him  away.  He  is  offended.  I 
shall  see  him  no  more."  Then  she  ques 
tioned  her  grandmother  as  to  what  she  had 
exactly  said  to  him  —  what  were  the  very 
words  she  used.  Did  she  let  him  suppose 
there  was  anything  between  her  and  An 
drea? 

44  No,"  Gigia  said  ;  "  she  had  told  nothing 
of  the  kind." 

44  Yes,"  persisted  Fiammetta  ;  "  but  you 
must  —  think  !  " 

And  Gigia  thought,  and  said,  4t  No ;  I 
told  him  that  you  were  old  friends,  and  that 
Andrea  wanted  you  to  marry  him." 

44  Oh!  "  interrupted  Fiammetta,  44you  told 
him  that  ?  Oh,  Noniia !  why  did  you  say 
so?" 

44  It  was  true,  Fiammetta ;  but  I  told  him 


FIAMMETTA.  227 

you  would  Trot  have  Andrea,  and  that  was 
the  reason  why  he  was  jealous." 

"Oh,  what  have  you  done?  what  have 
you  done,  Nonna  ?  Then  he  does  not  come 
because  he  thinks  I  am  to  marry  Andrea, 
and  he  is  vexed  with  me." 

"  But  I  told  him  you  would  not  marry  An 
drea.  But  after  all,  why  should  you?  It 
was  nothing  to  him  who  you  married.  That 
could  not  have  vexed  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fiammetta,  sadly,  "  that  is 
true." 

But  if  it  were  true,  she  thought  —  if  he 
really  could  look  upon  her  marriage  with 
Andrea  as  so  simple  and  natural  a  thing  — 
then,  ah,  then  !  he  did  not  love  her ;  and  all 
her  hopes  were  visionary,  and  all  her  fancies 
were  follies  ;  and  she  had  only  been  dream 
ing,  and  she  was  a  fool.  "  But  no  !  but  no ! 
that  cannot  be,"  she  said.  "  Ah  no  !  I  can 
not  believe  that."  Yet  a  doubt,  a  suspicion, 
hung  over  everything ;  and  she  waited  and 
waited,  hoping  that  the  cloud  would  pass. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  was  jealous  of  An 
drea  ?  Ah !  that  would  explain  it.  But 
jealous  of  Andrea,  so  far  beneath  him !  No ; 
it  could  not  be.  That  would  be  too  much 
to  believe.  So  fluctuating  between  hope  and 
fear  these  days  went  by. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

"  I  HAVE  not  seen  your  Naiad  yet,"  said 
Carlo  one  morning.  "  You  must  show  her 
to  me." 

"  Come  with  me  then,  and  we  will  go  up 
to  the  Casetta,  and  you  shall  see  her.  I  do 
not  know  what  she  will  think  of  me,  that  I 
have  not  been  to  see  her  for  so  many  days." 

"  Let  her  think  what  she  will.  It  is  all 
for  the  best  that  you  should  stay  away." 

So  they  went  up  together,  lingering  along 
the  road.  As  they  approached  the  house, 
Marco  wished  to  go  on  in  front  and  meet 
Fiammetta,  and  then  bring  her  down  to  meet 
Carlo ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  "  No, 
no  ;  we  will  go  together,"  he  said  ;  "  I  want 
to  see  just  how  she  will  receive  you." 

"If  you  wish  to  see  that,  let  me  go  on 
only  a  few  minutes  before  you.  If  she  sees 
you  with  me,  it  will  be  quite  a  different 
thing." 

"  So  it  will ;  you  are  right.  I  will  linger 
behind  for  a  few  minutes,  where  I  can  see 
you." 


FIAMMETTA.  229 

As  Marco  went  forward,  Fiammetta  caught 
sight  of  him,  and  sprang  eagerly  to  meet 
him  —  joy  in  her  face,  and  lightness  in  her 
step. 

"  Ah,  signer,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  come; 
I  am  so  happy.  I  thought  you  might  be  of 
fended,  and  would  come  no  more." 

"  Offended  ?  "  he  answered  ;  "  why  of 
fended?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I  was  afraid  that 
Nonna  might  have  said  something  to  offend 
you  when  she  asked  you  not  to  come  the 
other  day." 

"  Oh,  no  !  not  at  all.     I  understood  it." 

"  Ah,  signor,  are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Sure  —  very  sure." 

"But  there  is  nothing  between  Andrea 
and  me  —  nothing  I  beg  you  to  believe. 
It  was  all  his  doing,  and  he  had  no  right  to 
behave  as  he  did.  I  never,  never  gave  him 
any  reason.  He  had  no  right  to  be  jealous. 
He  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Has  he  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signor ;  he  has  gone,  thank  heaven ! 
and  I  hope  it  will  be  long  before  he  returns. 
I  told  him  to  go.  I  would  not  have  him 
here.  He  did  nothing  but  make  trouble." 

"  Oh !  no  matter  now,  Fiammetta ;  I  hope 


230  FIAMMETTA. 

he  will  trouble  you  no  more.  Don't  let  us 
think  of  him.  But  you  are  not  looking  quite 
well." 

"  Oh  yes,  signor,  I  am  quite  well  —  now 
that  you  have  come  back.  I  was  afraid  you 
would  not  come  again,  and  that  troubled 
me." 

"  No,  Fiammetta ;  you  won't  get  rid  of  me 
so  easily." 

"  Oh,  signor,  I  did  not  mean  that.  But 
who  is  that  signor  coming  up  here  ?  " 

"  That  ?  Oh,  that  is  my  friend  who  is  stay 
ing  with  me.  I  brought  him  up  with  me  to 
show  him  the  Naiad's  Nook,  and  the  Naiad, 
too,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

Fiammetta' s  face  clouded.  He  had  not 
come  alone.  She  was  not  sure  what  this 
meant.  Here  was  a  third  person,  who  per 
haps  had  come  to  prevent  them  from  being 
together  —  to  spy  upon  them,  to  do  her  an 
injury.  True,  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
come,  and  that  Marco  should  bring  him,  but 
still  she  wished  he  had  stayed  away. 

Marco  observed  this  change,  and  said, 
"You  do  not  seem  to  be  glad  to  welcome 
him." 

"  Oh  yes,  signor  ;  he  is  your  friend." 

Carlo  now  came  up,  and  Marco  said,  "  This 


FIAMMETTA.  231 

is  my  friend  of  whom  I  have  spoken  so  often 
to  you  —  my  dearest  friend ;  and  this,  Carlo, 
is  the  Signorina  Fiammetta,  who  has  done 
me  the  honor  to  be  my  Naiad." 

"  Oh,  signer,"  said  she,  "  you  must  not 
speak  of  me  like  that.  I  am  no  signorina ; 
I  am  simply  Fiammetta.  I  am  happy  to  see 
you,  signor,"  she  added,  turning  to  Carlo. 
"II  Signor  Conte  has  often,  as  he  says, 
spoken  to  me  of  you  and  of  your  kindness." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  make  your  acquaint 
ance,"  said  Carlo.  "  I  was,  I  confess,  curi 
ous  to  see  you,  and  see  how  far  Marco  had 
called  on  his  imagination  in  making  the 
Naiad  of  his  picture.  It  is  very  like  you  — 
very  like  indeed." 

"  I  do  not  know,  signor ;  I  am  no  judge. 
I  could  wish  I  looked  like  that ;  but  II  Sig 
nor  Conte  is  a  poet,  and  has  seen  more  with 
his  imagination  than  with  his  eyes.  He  has 
used  a  Claude  glass,"  said  she,  smiling  to 
Marco.  "  But  you  will  be  interested  to  see 
the  place  he  has  painted.  Ah,  that  really  is 
beautiful ;  that  is  worth  seeing." 

"  Let  us  go  there  at  once,"  said  Marco. 
"  Will  you  come  with  us,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,  signor." 

They  walked  along  together.    The  day  was 


232  FIAMMETTA. 

charming,  the  influences  pleasant.  "  And 
after  all,"  thought  Fiammetta,  "  he  is  not  so 
much  in  the  way  as  I  feared  —  only  he  keeps 
staring  at  me  so,  that  it  puts  me  out  of 
countenance."  It  was  true ;  he  did  look  at 
her  curiously  and  earnestly,  watching  her 
every  movement  and  expression,  and  heeding 
her  every  word.  He  was  struck  —  very 
much  struck  —  by  her  beauty,  by  her  grace, 
by  her  entire  simplicity,  and  began  to  think 
that  after  all  Marco  was  not  so  wrong  as 
he  had  supposed.  The  slight  shyness  she 
showed  when  he  addressed  her  added  a 
charm  to  her  bearing,  and  drew  him  towards 
her  sympathetically.  Marco  said  very  little. 
The  conversation  was  carried  on  mainly  be 
tween  Carlo  and  Fiammetta.  He  tried  to 
draw  her  out,  and  she  soon  lost  all  sense  of 
irksomeness  in  his  presence,  and  was  simple 
and  natural  as  ever. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  torrent.  "  That 
is  the  place  that  the  signer  painted,  and 
named  the  Naiad's  Nook,"  said  she.  "  Is  it 
not  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Beautiful  indeed,"  said  Carlo  ;  "  a  won 
derful  place !  Well,  you  have  had  luck,  my 
dear  fellow,  —  charming,  exquisite  !  " 

"  Is  it  not  ?  "  said  Fiammetta  sympatheti- 


F I  AM M  ETTA.  233 

cally.  "It  was  always  a  favorite  place  of 
mine,  long  before  the  Signor  Conte  came 
here." 

"  Ay,"  said  Marco,  "  she  was  sitting  here 
on  that  rock  when  I  first  saw  it.  In  fact, 
just  as  I  have  painted  her  in  my  picture." 

"Are  not  these  beech-trees  beautiful?" 
said  Fiammetta.  "  I  call  them  the  gentle 
men  of  the  woods.  They  are  so  smooth  and 
polished  in  their  straight  trunks ;  and  their 
very  leaves  are  so  delicate  and  refined,  and 
have  no  coarseness  about  them,  and  then 
they  have  such  pleasant  movements.  The 
firs  there  are  more  serious,  solemn,  and 
shaggy,  and  they  are  never  happy,  like  the 
beeches.  They  only  moan  and  sway,  and 
are  ever  troubled  by  something  or  other, 
and  lift  themselves  as  far  from  the  ground 
as  they  can,  and  talk  mysterious  secrets  up 
there  in  the  air.  And  the  chestnuts  are 
coarser,  though  they  are*  friendly  and  beau 
tiful  too  ;  but  they  are  more  like  rustics, 
more  like  us,  signer,  than  the  beeches,  and 
they  throw  about  their  great  jagged  arms, 
and — but"  —  and  here  she  paused,  sud 
denly  overcome  with  shyness,  and  said,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon." 

"  Ah,"  said  Carlo,  "  I  see  you  are  as  fond 
of  trees  as  I  am." 


234  FIAMMETTA. 

"Yes,  signer,  I  am.  I  have  lived  with 
them,  and  I  love  them." 

"  And  flowers  ?  " 

"Oh,  signer,  everybody  loves  flowers. 
How  could  we  help  it  ?  Everything  in  na 
ture  is  beautiful,  if  we  know  how  to  see  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Carlo  ;  "  but  that  is  the  great 
difficulty  that  all  true  artists  feel  —  how  to 
see  nature.  But  you  were  saying,  Marco, 
that  when  you  first  saw  this  place,  your 
Naiad  was  sitting  on  that  boulder.  Would 
she  mind  sitting  there  now,  only  for  a  mo 
ment  ?  Would  you  be  so  kind  ?  "  turning 
to  Fiammetta. 

"  Willingly,"  she  cried,  "  if  you  wish," 
and  she  leaped  to  the  boulder  and  assumed 
the  attitude  in  which  Marco  had  painted 
her. 

"She  is  perfectly  charming,"  whispered 
Carlo  to  Maroo,  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Is n't  she?" 

"  1  give  it  up.  You  have  done  no  more 
than  justice  to  her.  I  don't  know  that  you 
have  even  done  that." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he  at  last,  after  gazing 
at  her  for  a  while.  "  Don't  trouble  yourself 
to  sit  there  any  longer." 

"It  is  no  trouble,  signer.  I  will  sit  as 
long  as  you  wish." 


FIAMMETTA.  235 

"Before  you  come  down,"  cried  Marco, 
"  Fiammetta,  do  us  the  kindness  to  sing  a 
stornello,  as  you  were  singing  when  I  first 
saw  you  here.  Please,  do." 

"  If  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure.  Which 
one  ?  '  Fior  d'amaranto  '  ?  " 

"  No  !  not  that.     Sing  '  Era  di  Maggio.'  " 

"  '  Era  di  Luglio,'  signer,  you  remember 
you  said  it  should  be." 

"  Ah  yes !  '  Era  di  Luglio.'  " 

Carlo  added  his  prayer,  and  then  without 
making  any  protestations  and  apologies,  she 
at  once  began,  — 

"Era  di  Luglio  e  ben  me  ne  rieordo 
Quando  ci  cominciammo  a  ben  volere. 
Eran  fiorite  le  rose  dell'  orto 
E  le  ciliego  doventavan  neri. 
Le  doventavan  nere  nella  rama 
Allor  ti  vidi,  e  fosti  la  mia  dama. 
Passo  Testate,  e  gia  cade  la  foglia 
Di  far  teco  all'  amor  non  ho  piii  voglia." 

When  she  had  finished,  Carlo  cried 
"  Charming !  beautiful !  One  more,  if  you 
please  :  no  matter  what  —  any  one." 

"  c  Bella,  bellina,'  "  suggested  Marco,  "  as 
you  sang  before." 

"  Bella,  bellina  che  ti  ha  fatto  gli  occhi 
Chite  1'ha  fatto  tanto  innamorati 
Di  sotto  terra  caveresti  i  morti 
Dal  letto  caveresti  gli  ammalati 
De  sotto  terra  caveresti  noi 
Mi  son  levato  il  cor  per  darlo  a  voi." 


236  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  What  a  beautiful  voice,  and  how  charm 
ingly  you  sing !  "  said  Carlo,  enthusiastically. 

"  Oh,  signor,  I  do  not  sing.  I  have 
never  been  taught.  I  only  sing  as  the  birds 
sing,  without  any  knowledge." 

"Exactly,"  said  Carlo,  "and  that  is  what 
makes  your  singing  so  enchanting." 

"  Oh,  signor,  you  should  not  flatter  me." 

"  I  do  not ;  I  simply  say  what  I  think." 

"  Then  I  thank  you." 

An  hour  or  two  thus  passed,  and  the 
shadow  was  gone  from  Fiammetta.  After 
all,  this  friend  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  her 
friend  too,  and  little  by  little  her  suspicions 
cleared  away,  if  not  entirely,  at  least  so  far 
as  not  to  lessen  her  enjoyment  of  the  present. 
She  thrust  from  her  all  thoughts  of  the  fu 
ture.  The  present  was  pleasant.  Let  me 
enjoy  this,  she  thought,  while  it  lasts.  It 
was  not  till  the  moment  of  parting  came  that 
her  fear  rose  like  a  spectre  before  her,  and 
she  said  to  Carlo,  — 

"  I  hope,  signor,  I  shall  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  you  here  again." 

"  I  hope  so,  truly,"  he  said,  "  for  I  have 
enjoyed  the  morning  very  much  ;  and  when 
I  return  to  this  place  I  shall  certainly  desire 
to  renew  so  pleasant  an  acquaintance.  But 


F1AMMETTA.  237 

I  fear  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  so  on 
this  visit ;  for  I  am  going  away  to  Rome  in 
a  couple  of  days." 

"  Going  away  ?  "  said  she,  "  and  so  soon?  " 
And  then  it  was  that  the  spectre  of  fear 
arose  before  her. 

"  Yes  ;  I  must  go.  And  I  am  going  to 
carry  away  the  Conte  with  me  if  I  can." 

She  looked  at  Marco.  She  could  not 
speak  at  first.  It  was  as  if  a  thunderbolt 
had  suddenly  fallen  out  of  a  clear  sky. 

"  Yes,"   said    Marco,    hesitating,   "  I   am 
afraid  I  ought  to  go.     In  fact  I  have  stayed 
here  much  longer  than  I  intended  —  and  — 
and  I  —  in  fact,  I  find  that  I  must  go." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Carlo.  "  His  interests  re 
quire  that  he  should  go.  I  have  had  diffi 
culty  in  persuading  him  to  this,  for  he  is  too 
careless  of  his  own  affairs  ;  but  really  he 
ought  not  to  stay  here  any  longer,  and  he 
knows  it." 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  afraid  I  must  go.  I  should 
like  so  much  to  stay.  It  has  been  so  charm 
ing  ;  but  it  would  not  be  right." 

It  was  all  clear  to  Fiammetta  now.  She 
understood  that  Carlo  was  afraid  to  leave 
Marco  here,  because  of  her;  and  that  he 
was  carrying  him  away  to  put  an  end  to 


238  FIAMMETTA. 

everything.  But  she  recovered  herself  after 
a  moment's  pause,  and  said  to  Marco,  — 

44  Are  we  to  say  good-by,  now  ?  Shall  I 
not  see  you  again  ?  " 

Carlo  made  a  gesture  to  Marco,  to  sig 
nify,  "Yes;  say  good-by  now,"  but  he  could 
not.  It  was  too  hard,  too  sudden.  lie 
would  see  her  once  more,  and  explain  and 
soften  the  blow. 

"  No !  oh  no  !  I  shall  see  you  again  to  say 
good-by.  I  shall  come  and  see  you  to-mor 
row." 

Carlo  frowned,  and  shook  his  head  nega 
tively. 

"It  is  only  a  rivederci  at  present.  To 
morrow  I  will  see  you  again." 

She  was  not  convinced.  She  doubted 
whether  he  really  meant  to  come. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  come?  "  she  said. 
"  I  am  afraid  you  mean  to  say  good-by  now. 
But  I  wish  you  would  come." 

"  I  will,  I  assure  you  ;  and  now  only  a  ri 
vederci." 

So  they  parted.  As  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  earshot  Carlo  cried,  — 

"You  were  very  wrong.  You  ought  to 
have  bade  her  addio  then  at  once.  It  will 
only  be  harder  for  you  and  for  her  to-mor- 


F1AMMETTA.  239 

"  I  could  not ;  I  could  not ;  it  is  no  use 
to  talk  to  me.  I  could  not,  and  I  will  not." 

"  It  is  very  foolish ;  that  is  my  opinion." 

"  Don't  reason  and  argue  with  me.  Think 
it  over  with  yourself,  and  you  must  see  that 
this  would  have  been  hard  and  cruel." 

"  When  a  painful  operation  is  to  be  per 
formed,  the  sooner  it  is  over  the  better. 
What  do  you  mean  to  say  when  you  see  her 
again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  mean  to  see  her  — 
and  to  see  her  alone.  I  have  given  you  my 
promise  not  to  take  an  irretrievable  step, 
and  I  shall  hold  to  it.  That  is  all  I  can 
say." 

"  You  are  very  weak,  Marco.  It  is  all 
folly." 

Then  they  walked  along  for  a  consider 
able  distance  without  speaking,  and  Carlo 
pressed  the  matter  no  more.  He  saw  that 
Marco's  mind  was  made  up,  and  that  there 
was  no  use  of  arguing  with  him.  At  last 
Marco  said,  — 

"Well,  Carlo,  what  did  you  think  of 
her?" 

"I  thought  she  was  charming.  She 
made  a  most  agreeable  impression  on  me. 
Certainly  she  is  very  handsome,  and  there 


240  F I  AM  M  ETTA 

is  a  singular  simplicity  as  well  as  dignity  in 
all  her  bearing  that  is  very  attractive.  I  no 
longer  wonder  at  you.  I  think  she  might 
bewitch  me  too  in  time  ;  but  I  should  have 
been  wiser  than  you,  perhaps,  because  I  am 
so  much  older.  I  should  have  fled  from  the 
temptation;  I  should  have  feared  that  I 
might  become  as  entangled  as  you  are  now. 
I  have  seen  her  once.  Well !  I  don't  mean 
to  see  her  again.*' 

"  Is  she  not  all  I  told  you  ?  " 
"  All,  I  dare  say.     I  have  only  seen  her 
once,  but  that  suffices  to  induce  me  to  be 
lieve  that  she  is  all  you  say.     But  this  does 
not  alter  the  question.     Beautiful,  attractive, 
simple,  innocent  as  she  is,  you  cannot  marry 
her,  and  I  have  told  you  why.     It  would  be 
an  act  of  madness  in  my  estimation.     I  will 
not    go    over    the   argument   again.      You 
know  I  am  right.     You  must  know  it ;  and 
I  am  afraid,  despite  your  promise,  that  to 
morrow  you  will  break  down." 
"  No ;  I  will  not,"  said  Marco. 
"  So  be  it ;  1  will  say  nothing  more." 
But  after  a  few  minutes  he  began  again  : 
"  Think  of  Alfonso.    He  married  a  pretty 
model,  you  remember ;  and  what  became  of 
it  ?     It  simply  ruined  him.     Oh  no  !  he  did 


FIAMMETTA.  241 

not  care  for  what  the  world  said  and  thought. 
Let  it  gossip  as  much  as  it  chose.  He  would 
have  his  own  way  in  defiance  of  it,  and  he 
did.  I  ask  you  honestly,  do  you  think  he 
has  not  repented  bitterly  of  it  ever  since  the 
honeymoon  was  passed  ?  " 

"  You  would  not  compare  her  with  Fiam- 
metta?" 

"  No ;  agreed.  Fiammetta  is  a  far  finer 
creature  ;  infinitely  above  her,  if  you  please. 
But  the  result  would  be  the  same." 

"  That  is  begging  the  whole  question." 

"No;  it  is  simply  stating  facts  as  they 
are.  I  know  it  hurts  you  to  hear  such  com 
parisons  ;  but  I  am  a  surgeon,  who  cuts  deep 
to  extirpate  the  cancer,  not  heeding  the  pain. 
Then  there  was  Alfredo,  too.  He  did  pretty 
much  the  same  thing ;  and  what  became  of 
that  ?  Well,  name  to  me  any  one  of  them 
that  has  made  such  a  mesalliance  that  has 
not  suffered  for  it." 

"  I  know,  I  know  ;  it  is  of  no  use.  It 
would  be  all  very  true  ordinarily ;  but  this 
is  an  exceptional  case." 

"  Every  man  thinks  his  own  case  excep 
tional.  But  I  will  say  no  more.  You  asked 
my  opinion.  Now  you  know  it,  and  you 
must  decide  for  yourself.  I  don't  mean  to 

16 


242  FIAMMETTA. 

make  myself  disagreeable.  I  only  speak  out 
of  the  deepest  friendship  to  you." 

"  I  know  you  do,"  said  Marco ;  and  he 
took  him  by  the  hand. 

They  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  After 
they  returned  to  the  Villa,  they  made  their 
arrangements  to  leave.  Marco  packed  his 
trunk,  and  his  picture,  and  all  his  painting 
materials  ;  and  they  passed  the  evening  in 
talking  of  other  things. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MARCO  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  after 
loitering  about  all  the  morning,  he  slowly 
and  on  foot  began  to  stray  in  the  late  after 
noon  towards  the  Casetta.  He  had,  after 
all,  many  misgivings  as  to  whether  he  had 
been  wise  in  not  following  Carlo's  counsel. 
It  was  hard  to  say  good-by  so  abruptly  — 
hard  to  her  as  well  as  to  himself ;  but  would 
it  be  easier  now  when  they  were  alone  ?  He 
was  afraid  of  himself,  and  afraid  of  what 
he  might  say.  He  lingered  and  lingered 
along  the  road,  forecasting  this  interview ; 
and  it  was  not  till  evening  was  drawing  in 
that  he  arrived  near  the  Casetta. 

Fiammetta,  who  had  been  waiting  there 
for  hours,  anxiously  looking  out  for  him, 
with  many  a  fear  and  many  a  hope,  came 
rapidly  forward  to  meet  him,  and  cried,  — 

"  Oh,  you  have  come,  signer  !  It  is  so 
late  that  I  was  afraid  I  should  not  see 
you." 

"  I  promised  you  I  would  come,  you 
know ;  and  I  never  break  my  promise." 


244  FIAMMETTA. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  know  your  friend  did  not 
wish  you  to  come." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it  in  his  face.  He  is  carrying  you 
away  against  your  will." 

"Nonsense,  Fiammetta!  I  do  not  want 
to  go  —  no,  indeed,  I  do  not ;  but  I  must  go 
—  I  must.  Indeed,  I  ought  not  to  have 
stayed  so  long ;  but-it  has  been  so  pleasant 
that  I  could  not  tear  myself  away." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  it  has  been  very 
pleasant." 

"  But  come,"  he  said ;  "  let  us  go  to  the 
Casetta.  It  is  late,  and  I  want  to  say  good- 
by  to  your  grandfather  and  grandmother; 
and  then  you  will  walk  with  me,  as  you  used 
to,  back  to  the  turning,  if  you  will." 

She  made  no  objection,  and  they  went  to 
the  Casetta.  Gigia  and  Antonio  were  both 
at  home,  and  were  surprised  to  hear  that 
Marco  was  going  so  soon. 

"  Ah !  but  I  suppose  it  is  late  for  you, 
signor,"  said  Gigia,  "  to  be  here  in  the 
mountains.  The  nights  are  getting  chill,  and 
the  winter  will  come  soon  ;  and  you  will  be 
glad  to  get  back  to  your  friends  and  to  the 
city,  of  course." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  this  place  ;  but 


FIAMMETTA.  245 

I  must.  So  good-by,  Gigia,  and  good-by, 
Antonio ;  and  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleas 
ant  winter,  and  be  all  well." 

"  May  the  Madonna  bless  you,  Signor 
Conte  !  "  both  exclaimed,  "  and  bring  you  all 
good  things."  And  that  was  over. 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  said,  "  Fiam- 
metta  is  going  down  with  me  to  the  turning, 
if  you  have  no  objection." 

" Ma  le  pace"  said  both.  "  Go,  Fiam- 
metta ;  and,  Fiammetta,  remember  about 
the  "  —  And  she  made  a  gesture  of  expla 
nation. 

"  Oh  yes,  Nonna." 

They  walked  out  of  sight  of  the  house. 
Fiammetta  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She 
was  very  sad  and  silent,  and  they  walked 
along  scarcely  speaking. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumnal  evening.  The 
moon  was  at  its  full,  just  rising  over  the 
trees,  and  the  last  glory  of  the  sun  was  fading 
from  the  west.  At  their  feet  ran  the  brook, 
murmuring  as  it  went,  and  a  stillness  and 
hush  was  over  everything.  Deep  shadows 
were  sleeping  in  the  hollows  ;  the  crest  of 
the  hills  and  the  tips  of  the  trees  were  bur 
nished  with  the  silvery  mist  of  the  moon, 
and  the  moon  itself,  with  a  sad,  pitying  face, 
was  looking  down  upon  them. 


2-46  FIAMMETTA. 

They  stood  together  without  speaking  for 
some  minutes  after  they  had  arrived  at  the 
turning,  and  then  Marco  said,  "  Well,  Fiam- 
metta,  I  am  afraid  that  we  must  here  say 
good-by.  You  have  made  this  a  very  happy 
summer  to  me,  but  all  things  come  to  an 
end." 

"  Ah,  signor  !  "  she  said,  and  then  she 
began  to  sob. 

"  Dear  Fiammetta,"  he  said,  "  why  do  you 
cry?  Don't  cry." 

"No,  I  won't,  signor,  —  I  won't.  It  is 
foolish  in  me ;  but  I  too  have  been  happy, 
and  now  it  is  all  over ;  and  you  have  been 
so  good  to  me,  and  now  you  carry  away  all 
the  happiness  with  you." 

"  Oh  no,  Fiammetta ;  you  will  be  very 
happy  here.  I  shall  always  think  of  you 
when  I  am  far  away,  and  think  how  good 
and  sweet  you  are,  and  I  shall  wish  the  old 
days  back  many  a  time." 

"Oh,  will  you?  —  will  you?"  she  said, 
imploringly.  "  But  they  will  never  come 
back  for  all  our  wishing  —  no,  they  will  never 
come  back." 

"  Oh  yes,  they  will ;  they  will  come  back 
next  summer.  I,  too,  shall  come  back  then, 
and  we  will  renew  them  together." 


FIAMMETTA.  247 

0 

"Ah,  signer,  who  knows  that  the  next 
summer  will  ever  come  ?  All  I  know  is  that 
this  is  gone,  and  now  comes  the  winter,  and 
you  tell  me  that  you  will  come  back ;  but  it 
is  long  before  the  summer  will  come  again, 
and  before  you  can  return." 

"  Be  hopeful,  Fiammetta.  You  are  too 
young  to  be  sad,  and  to  take  such  gloomy 
views.  We  will  both  meet  again,  as  I  said, 
and  will  be  even  happier  than  we  were  or 
are." 

"  Ah,  than  we  are  !  Yes,  perhaps ;  or  at 
least  than  I  am." 

Then  she  put  her  hand  in  her  bosom,  and 
drew  forth  from  it  a  little  box,  and  held 
it  out  to  him.     "  This  is  yours,   signor.     1 1 
forgot  to  give  it  to  you  before,"  she  said. 

"  What  is  it,  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"It  is  the  coral  necklace  you  bade  me 
wear  while  you  were  painting." 

"  Dear  Fiammetta,  that  is  yours.  It  is 
not  mine.  I  never  meant  you  to  return  it 
to  me.  Keep  it  and  wear  it  for  my  sake, 
and  in  memory  of  the  Naiad's  Nook.  Stop ! 
let  me  clasp  it  myself  round  your  neck ;  and 
wear  it  always." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears,  for  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes ;  and  he  clasped  it 


248  FIAMMETTA. 

round  her  neck.  Their  faces  were  close  to 
gether.  She  was  looking  up  into  his  eyes 
with  a  look  full  of  tenderness  and  sorrow. 
His  hands  trembled  as  he  finally  clasped  the 
necklace.  She  felt  them  on  her  neck,  and, 
as  he  withdrew  them,  she  suddenly,  with  an 
irresistible  impulse,  flung  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  fell  upon  his  breast,  crying,  — 

"  Oh,  signor !  signer  !  take  me  with  you ! 
—  take  me  with  you!  Don't  abandon  me. 
I  will  serve  you  well.  I  will  do  all  you 
ask.  I  will  be  your  slave  ;  but  take  me  — 
take  me  with  you !  " 

Marco  was  thoroughly  overcome.  How 
could  he  reject  her  ?  How  could  he  put  her 
away,  when  she  thus  appealed  to  him  ?  It 
was  a  terrible  moment.  A  great  tide  of  feel 
ing,  like  a  mighty  surf-wave,  went  over  him. 
His  whole  being  swayed  to  and  fro  with  the 
impulses  of  passion  and  pity.  God  knows, 
he  himself  never  knew,  how  he  overcame 
himself.  But  somehow  or  other  he  did,  after 
he  had  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  kissed 
her  passionately,  as  she  looked  up  through 
her  tears  into  his  face.  A  great  sense  of 
sympathy  and  protection  and  sorrow  came 
over  him  that  drove  out  his  fiercer  passions, 
and  he  took  her  hand  in  his  and  put  her 
gently  away,  and  said,  — 


FIAMMETTA.  249 

"  Fiammetta,  Fiammetta !  you  make  me 
very  unhappy." 

"  Oh,  signer !  I  did  not  mean  to  do  that. 
But  take  me  with  you  ;  don't  leave  me." 

"  That  is  impossible  ;  you  know  it  is  im 
possible,  Fiammetta.  Don't  ask  me  to  do 
such  a  thing.  Don't  ask  me  to  do  what  is 
wrong." 

"No!  I  suppose  it  is  impossible.  You 
would  not  want  me ;  I  should  only  be  in  your 
way." 

"  No,  not  that  —  not  that !  You  would 
never  be  in  my  way ;  but  I  have  no  right  to 
take  you,  however  I  might  wish  it.  And 
besides  —  besides  —  it  is  impossible.  You 
know  that,  don't  you,  dear  Fiammetta  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  see  I  was  wrong.  But  you  will 
forgive  me,  signor,  —  you  will  forgive  me, 
won't  you?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Fiammetta. 
I  am  sorry,  so  sorry,  you  feel  thus.  I  wish 
I  could  say  anything  to  help  you.  Leave- 
takings  are  never  pleasant.  One  always  fore 
casts  sorrows,  that  never  come  after  all.  But 
all  will  be  bright  at  last.  I  wish  you  every 
happiness.  You  know  I  do,  —  you  know  I 
would  do  anything  in  my  power  to  make  you 
happy." 


250  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  Yes,  signer ;  I  know  you  would.  I  am 
very  silly ;  I  did  not  mean  to  do  anything 
wrong.  Say  you  forgive  me,  and  will  not 
think  the  worse  of  me  for  my  folly." 

"  I  shall  never  think  of  you  but  kindly  — 
most  kindly.  You  may  always  count  on  me 
as  your  steadfast  friend,  ready  always  to  do 
anything  and  everything  that  I  can." 

It  cost  Marco  a  good  deal  to  say  these 
words.  They  were  so  cold  —  he  felt  them  to 
be  so  cold  —  but  it  was  his  only  resource. 
To  say  what  he  really  felt  was  impossible. 
Had  he  done  so,  the  irretrievable  step  would 
be  taken,  and  he  had  pledged  himself  not  to 
take  it.  There  would  be  no  going  back. 

She  tried  to  smile ;  but  it  was  only  a  pit 
eous  attempt.  She  knew  not  what  to  say. 
She  stood  still,  and  looked  down  on  the 
ground  as  in  a  dream.  At  last  she  said, 
"  When  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  he  answered  ;  and 
she  mechanically  repeated  .the  words. 

A  loud,  long  call  startled  her.  "  Fiam- 
metta-ah-ah !  "  it  cried.  "  Fiaminetta-ah-ah ! 
Ho-o^o-o!" 

"  It  is  my  grandfather,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
calling  me :  he  is  coming  after  me.  I  must 
go,  —  and  you  must  go.  He  must  not  find 


FIAMMETTA.  251 

us  here.  Good-by !  Addio,  signer !  "  and 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Addio,  Fiammetta ! ?'  he  said,  as  he 
clasped  her  hand  and  held  it  firmly  in  his ; 
"  addio  !  no,  not  addio  !  —  a  rivederci !  — 
next  summer  ;  and  God  be  with  you ! "  and 
he  turned  away. 

He  was  gone  —  all  the  world  was  gone  to 
her.  She  stood  transfixed  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Then  she  hurriedly  wiped  her  eyes, 
smoothed  back  her  hair,  and  turned  to  meet 
her  grandfather. 

"  I  am  here  !  "  she  said.  "  Nonno,  I  am 
coming." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MARCO  found  Carlo  anxiously  waiting  for 
him  at  the  Villa  when  he  arrived  there. 

"  Well  ? "  said  he,  interrogatively,  and 
looking  into  the  face  of  his  friend. 

u  It  is  over,"  said  Marco,  in  response. 
"  It  is  done.  Ask  me  no  more.  It  is  all 
over ;  but  I  cannot  talk  about  it  now." 

"  Only  one  word  —  did  you  keep  your 
promise  to  me?  " 

"Yes." 

"  That  is  all  I  care  to  know  for  the  pres 
ent.  You  have  taken  a  great  load  off  my 
mind.  You  stayed  so  long  —  no  matter, 
however." 

"  I  will  go  to  my  room  and  make  myself 
ready  for  supper,"  said  Marco. 

There  was  not  much  conversation  that 
evening  between  the  two  friends,  and  what 
there  was  was  trivial.  Carlo  took  a  book 
and  read  it,  or  pretended  to  read  it,  glancing 
at  intervals  at  his  friend,  who  sat  moodily 
gazing  at  the  carpet,  or  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room,  engaged  in  his  own  thoughts. 


F I  AM  M ETTA.  253 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  leave  you  here  ?  " 
he  said  at  last.  "  I  am  tired  —  I  think  I 
will  go  to  bed." 

"  Go,  go  !  "  said  Carlo.  "  To-morrow  at 
eight,  is*tnot?" 

"Yes;  the  carriage  will  be  here  at  seven, 
and  we  go  at  eight." 

And  they  separated  for  the  night. 

The  morning  came,  cool  and  bright ;  a  deli 
cious  fragrance  was  in  the  air.  There  was 
not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  whatever  there  was 
in  Marco's  mind.  The  carriage  punctually 
arrived ;  all  the  luggage  was  packed  in. 
They  both  took  their  seats,  shook  hands  with 
Pietro  and  Maria,  who  wished  them  all 
sorts  of  happiness  ;  Pasquale  executed  a  wild 
flourish  with  his  whip,  that  echoed  from  the 
house  and  sounded  down  the  road,  and  the 
horse  set  off  at  a  smart  trot.  %They  had 
scarcely  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when 
Marco's  eye  caught  sight  of  a  figure  half 
hidden  by  the  trees,  and  near  the  road. 

"  Look !  "  he  said,  touching  Carlo's  arm, 
"it  is  Fiammetta." 

Yes  ;  it  was  Fiammetta.  She  had  come 
down  to  catch  a  last  look  of  Marco,  and  there 
she  had  been  sitting  for  hours.  She  had  not 
intended  he  should  see  her ;  but  she  wanted 


254  FIAMMETTA. 

the  poor  momentary  consolation  of  one  last 
sight  of  him.  As  Marco  caught  sight  of  her, 
he  called  "  Fiammetta  !  "  and  she  came  for 
ward.  As  they  pulled  up  the  horse,  — 

"  Ah,  Fiammetta,"  he  cried,  "  you  should 
not  have  come  down  here."  * 

"  It  was  to  say  good-by,"  she  said,  "  to 
you,  and  to  the  signer." 

At  their  call  she  came  up  to  the  carriage 
and  they  all  shook  hands. 

"  Good-by,  signori,"  she  said. 

"  No ;  a  rivederci"  said  Marco  ;  "  a  rive- 
derci,  Fiammetta.  We  will  have  another 
pleasant  summer  together  next  year." 

"Who  knows?"  she  said.  "  May  the 
Madonna  have  you  in  her  keeping  !  " 

And  then  the  carriage  drove  on,  and 
Marco  kept  constantly  looking  back,  and 
waving  hi§  handkerchief  to  her,  till  she  was 
lost  to  sight. 

"  Poor  little  thing !  "  exclaimed  Carlo,  "  I 
am  sorry  for  her." 

Marco  looked  blankly  out  into  the  dis 
tance.  He  could  not  speak. 

For  a  time,  as  they  drove  on,  little  was 
said ;  but  at  last  Marco  gave  an  account  of 
their  parting  the  previous  night  in  full,  and 
Carlo  was  satisfied. 


FIAMMETTA.  255 

"Well,"  he  said;  "now  that  chapter  of 
a  pretty  romance  is  closed,  and  you  must 
think  of  it  no  longer,  —  for  the  present  at 
least." 

"  That  is  easy  to  say,"  answered  Marco. 
"Good  advice  it  may  be,  but  not  easy  to 
follow.  However,  it  is  over,  at  all  events, 
for  good  or  for  ill,  who  can  tell  which?  " 

"  For  good  —  for  good,  depend  upon  it. 
Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it." 

They  did  not.  As  they  went  on,  Marco's 
mood  gradually  gave  way  to  lighter  feelings. 
The  day  was  delightful.  Carlo  talked  well 
and  steadily  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  and 
laid  plans  for  the  winter.  There  was  the 
excitement  of  coming  again  into  the  world 
of  people  and  noise  and  bustle ;  and  by  the 
time  they  arrived  in  Rome,  Marco  was  him 
self  again.  Once  there,  he  began  to  occupy 
himself  in  his  studio,  in  visits  to  his  friends, 
in  hearing  their  reports  and  news,  seeing 
the  pictures  that  had  been  painted,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  gossip  of  the  town,  —  the 
scandal,  the  jokes,  the  follies,  the  marriages, 
the  engagements,  the  politics ;  in  a  word,  all 
the  swarming  interests  of  the  busy  world  — 
and  the  episode  of  the  summer  began  to  look 
different  to  him. 


256  FIAMMETTA. 

His  picture  proved  a  great  success.  It 
was  not  only  much  admired,  but  he  had  re 
peated  and  most  advantageous  offers  for  it. 
These,  however,  he  refused ;  he  wished,  at 
least,  to  make  a  copy  of  it  to  keep  for  him 
self  in  memory  of  Fiammetta,  and  until  he 
had  done  this  he  would  not  dispose  of  it. 
This  was,  however,  finally  arranged ;  and  it 
was  bought  at,  for  him,  a  large  price,  with 
the  understanding  that  he  should  keep  it 
and  copy  it  at  his  leisure. 

Other  subjects  now  came  in  to  paint, 
and  art  resumed  its  claim  on  his  time  and 
thoughts.  He  finished  his  Judith,  and  be 
gan  to  make  studies  for  a  new  picture, 
and  this  he  soon  was  busily  engaged  upon. 
The  weeks  and  the  months  went  by  busily 
and  rapidly,  —  the  winter  came  on.  He  fre 
quented  constantly  the  theatre  and  the  opera 
and  the  various  concerts.  He  went  more 
into  society,  —  to  the  little  reunions  of  his 
friends,  to  balls  and  large  receptions,  and 
was  everywhere  welcomed.  He  made  some 
new  friends  among  the  foreigners  who  fre 
quented  Home,  and  became  interested  in  a 
fresh  set  of  ideas  and  feelings ;  and  it  was 
only  now  and  then  that  the  image  of  Fiam 
metta  came  up  before  him ;  always,  indeed, 


FIAMMETTA.  257 

pleasantly,  but  in  a  more  prosaic  way  than 
before.  He  began  to  think  that,  after  all, 
Carlo  had  been  right.  It  would  have  been 
a  folly.  True,  she  was  charming,  graceful, 
naive,  innocent,  there,  with  the  solitude  and 
surroundings  of  nature  ;  but  here,  in  this 
artificial  world,  that  laughed  at  romance,  she 
would  have  been  out  of  place.  It  had  been 
a  dream,  a  very  delightful  dream ;  but,  after 
all,  had  it  been  more  than  a  dream  ?  No  ; 
on  the  whole,  perhaps  not. 

It  was  a  Ions;  time  before  he  came  to  this 

O 

conclusion.  Months  had  passed  away  since 
he  had  left  her,  and  it  was  now  February, 
when  the  blood  in  the  year  is  sluggish,  and 
romance  has  gone  to  sleep.  Sometimes  he 
and  Carlo  talked  over  the  matter,  and,  on 
the  whole,  Marco  admitted  that  he  had  been 
right.  It  had  been  a  charming  little  poem, 
but  life  is  not  a  poem,  it  is  only  prose  ;  one 
cannot  feed  always  on  peaches  and  flowers, 
however  sweet  and  perfect,  any  more  than 
one  can  always  play. 

The  attrition  of  the  world  —  and  espe 
cially  of  the  world  in  a  city  —  is  not  conge 
nial  to  romance.  Little  by  little  it  wears  out 
the  flowery  and  grass-covered  road,  and*  re 
duces  it  to  hard,  dry  dust  and  gravel.  This 

17 


258  FIAMMETTA. 

was  not  entirely  the  case  with  Marco.  It 
acted  rather  on  him  like  a  long  drought  that 
fades  the  ever-springing  grass  and  flowers, 
despoils  them  of  their  freshness,  and  covers 
them  with  the  dust  of  the  highway.  Per 
haps  a  sudden  shower,  a  downfall  of  profuse 
rain,  might  revive  and  reglorify  them  ;  but 
still,  for  the  time,  they  have  lost  their  charm 
—  one  feels  regret  at  looking  at  them,  not  a 
desire  to  gather  and  wear  them. 

This,  in  short,  was  the  history  of  Marco 
after  he  left  Fiamnietta.  With  her  the  story 
was  different.  She  was  alone ;  there  were 
no  interests  of  society  to  engage  and  occupy 
her  mind.  Her  life  went  on  in  the  old  mo 
notonous  path,  over  the  same  road  of  petty 
uncongenial  duties.  The  luxuriant  peace  of 
summer  had  passed  by ;  autumn  had  gone, 
with  its  gleams  of  pensive  and  melancholy 
beauty ;  and  winter,  drear  and  cold  and  un 
friendly,  had  come.  The  sunshine,  too,  had 
gone  out  of  her  life.  After  the  delicious 
draughts  of  joy  and  love  that  she  had  daily 
drunk  in  during  these  glowing  days,  the 
draught  of  common  life  now  tasted  bitter. 
She  had  no  one  to  talk  to  who  could  inter 
est  or  sympathize  with  her,  no  one  to  whom 
she  could  confide  all  the  passionate  longing 


F1AMMETTA.  259 

of  her  heart,  all  the  ideal  dreams  of  her  im 
agination,  all  the  tenderness  of  her  regrets. 
Gigia  was  kind  and  grandmotherly ;  but 
Gigia  did  not  understand  her  —  could  not 
understand  her  —  and  all  that  Fiammetta 
felt  was  a  sealed  book  to  her.  With  Anto 
nio  it  was  even  worse.  There  were  none  of 
the  girls  in  the  neighborhood  who  were  at 
all  on  a  level  with  her,  or  with  whom  she 
could  have  aught  but  the  most  trivial  and 
external  intercourse.  Her  world  was  not 
their  world;  her  nature  was  not  their  na 
ture.  Their  coarse  talk  jarred  on  her ;  their 
loves  and  their  wishes  and  interests  were 
on  an  entirely  different  plane.  How  could 
she  have  any  sympathy  with  them  ?  She 
longed  to  pour  out  her  feelings  to  some  one, 
to  share  her  hopes  and  her  griefs  with  some 
one.  But  where  could  she  find  such  an  one  ? 
Her  spirit  was  slowly  dying  of  starvation  — 
of  inanition. 

Sometimes,  when  the  days  were  propi 
tious,  she  would  go  back  to  the  torrent,  and 
sit  there  for  hours  listening  to  the  gurgle  of 
the  waters,  and  dreaming  of  the  days  that 
were  gone.  This  was  a  sad  pleasure  ;  and 
at  times  she  would  weep  as  if  in  despair. 
But  she  could  not  keep  away  from  the 


260  F1AMMETTA. 

place.  It  was  so  haunted  with  memories 
that  at  moments  she  almost  thought  she 
heard  his  step  coming  as  he  was  wont  to  do. 
The  trees  and  the  brook  were  alone  her  con 
fidants  ;  but  even  they  were  not  the  same. 
The  brook  had  swollen  with  the  autumnal 
rains  to  a  fierce  and  brawling  torrent,  and 
no  longer  murmured  softly  as  of  old.  The 
beech-trees  were  riven  of  their  leaves,  and 
only  showed  their  bare  branches  against  the 
sky.  The  flowers  were  dead  and  gone  ;  all 
was  changed.  Could  it  —  would  it  ever  be 
the  same  again?  Would  he  ever  come 
back  ?  Ah  no  !  Had  he  loved  her  as  she 
loved  him,  never,  never  would  he  have  left 
her.  And  now,  where  was  he,  and  what 
was  he  doing  ?  He  was  smiling  and  talking 
to  others,  and  he  had  forgotten  her.  Not  a 
word  had  she  heard  from  him,  and  nobody 
could  tell  her  anything  about  him.  Ah, 
yes;  the  old  stornello  was  right  that  she 
used  to  sing  to  him.  And  then  she  would 
sing  it  in  a  sort  of  despair,  — 

"  Fior  d'amarar.to 
Mi  son  sognato  non  ni'anmvi  punto 
Quando  mi  son  svegliuto  aveva  pianto." 

And  as  she  finished  she  would  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears,  and  then,  remembering 


FIAMMETTA.  261 

those  kisses  of  his  that  she  still  seemed  to 
feel  on  her  lips,  she  would,  in  a  broken 
voice,  sing  the  refrain,  — 

"  Volgite  indietro  bocchino  da  baci 
Quanto  mi  piaci  nel  farce  al  amor." 

And  then  again,  when  the  cold  winds  of  the 
north  blew  down  through  the  gorge  and 
chilled  her,  and  whirled  the  dead  leaves 
about,  and  scattered  them  over  the  torrent, 
she  would  murmur,  "  Ah  me  ! 

"  'Quando  soffia  1'aquilone,  s'affosca  il  mare 
Quando  spunta  1'amore  nasce  il  dolor 
Tu  mi  fai  struggere  a  poer,  a  poer 
Mi  fai  morire,  mi  fai  morire  di  dolor.'  " 

Thus  many  and  many  a  day  was  spent  dur 
ing  the  late  autumn  and  the  early  winter, 
communing  with  these  melancholy  thoughts. 
This  soon  began  to  show  its  effect  upon  her 
health.  She  grew  paler  and  thinner,  and 
more  listless  and  unwilling  to  work ;  and 
often  her  grandmother  would  look  at  her 
anxiously,  and  say,  "  How  ill  you  look,  child. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Your  eyes 
look  as  if  you  had  been  crying  them  out ; 
they  are  so  hollow  and  dark.  What  is  the 
matter?  You  never  used  to  look  like  this. 
Has  anything  happened  to  you?  Are  you 
ill  ?  " 


262  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

"  I  don't  know,  Nonna.  No ;  I  am  not 
ill,  but  I  am  not  in  good  spirits.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  weather  and  the  winter." 

"  You  never  felt  them  before.  You  al 
ways  used  to  be  so  strong  and  well  in  all 
sorts  of  weather,  and  now  you  are  beginning 
to  lose  all  your  strength." 

"  Yes,  Nonna ;  I  do  not  feel  very  strong, 
but  it  is  nothing." 

"  Oh  dear  me  !  "  at  times  her  grandmother 
would  say.  "  You  remind  me  so  of  your 
mother  now.  You  never  used  to.  She  grew 
pale  and  thin  just  as  you  do,  and  she  always 
said  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her. 
But  then  she  had  good  reason,  poor  thing, 
and  you  have  not.  Don't  you  think  you  had 
better  let  me  call  in  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  Nonna ;  I  shall  get  on  well 
enough.  I  don't  wish  to  see  a  doctor. 
When  the  weather  grows  warm  again  I  shall 
be  well.  It  is  the  cold,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  expose  yourself  so.  You 
are  constantly  out  in  the  woods,  and  they 
are  too  cold  and  damp,  and  that  makes  you 
feel  unwell ;  and  you  have  begun  to  cough 
lately.  You  must  really  be  more  prudent." 

"  I  will,  Nonna,"  she  said  quickly. 

Antonio  and  Gigia  sometimes  talked  over 


FIAMMETTA.  263 

the  matter  together,  but  they  did  not  fathom 
it.  And  so  gradual  was  the  change  from 
day  to  day  that  they  were  less  aware  of  it 
than  the  neighbors,  who  now  and  then  came 
in,  and  exclaimed  that  she  was  looking  like 
a  rag  —  a  mere  rag  —  and  ought  to  take  care 
of  herself.  Still  it  made  no  permanent  im 
pression  on  the  grandfather  and  grand 
mother,  who  said,  "  Ah,  it  is  the  time  you 
know  when  girls  always  look  pale.  She  '11 
get  over  it." 

After  this  Fiammetta  stayed  more  within 
doors  ;  but  this  did  not  raise  her  spirits  or 
strengthen  her  body.  It  was  so  monotonous, 
so  dull,  that  she  seemed  ever  to  grow  paler 
and  weaker.  She  craved  fresh  air  and  the 
exercise  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  and 
she  did  nothing  but  think  over  and  over 
again  all  the  past,  in  a  sort  of  mute  resigna 
tion.  Hope  she  had  little  —  fear,  nothing 
—  only  a  sort  of  benumbed  feeling,  which 
prevented  her  from  being  interested  in  any 
thing.  When  she  went  out,  she  almost  al 
ways  went  to  the  old  church,  and  there  she 
kneeled  down  and  said  her  prayers  with  a 
certain  kind  of  hopelessness  ;  but  she  got 
also  comfort  from  it.  And  sometimes  she 
talked  with  Padre  Anselmo,  who  tried  to 


264  FIAMMETTA. 

cheer  her  up.  But  she  told  him  nothing, 
and  he  knew  not  how  to  help  her,  though  he 
had  the  best  of  will.  She  also  made  wreaths 
to  hang  upon  the  picture  of  the  Madonna, 
and  worked  at  an  altar-cloth  for  the  church, 
in  which  Padre  Anselmo  took  much  interest. 
But  her  hands  would  often  fall  while  she 
was  working,  and  she  could  not  see  the 
threads  for  the  tears  that  brimmed  up  in  her 
eyes. 

Gigia  once  told  her  that  Andrea  was  com 
ing  to  his  people,  and  asked  if  she  would 
not  like  to  see  him. 

"  No,  Nonna,"  she  exclaimed.  "  No  ;  I 
cannot  see  him.  I  forgive  him,  now  he  is 
away,  but  do  not  let  him  come  here.  Re 
member  what  he  did  and  said  when  he  was 
here  last,"  and  her  eyes  fired  up  with  a  sud 
den  flame,  and  she  became  so  excited  that 
'  Gigia  said  no  more.  And  Andrea  did  not 
come. 

One  day  in  February  she  had  a  sudden 
irresistible  longing  to  go  up  to  the  Naiad's 
Nook.  The  day  was  not  a  favorable  one. 
There  was  snow  on  the  ground,  and  the 
clouds  were  heavy  and  threatening ;  still  she 
felt  that  she  must  go.  The  cold  would  do 
her  good  ;  the  exposure  would  do  her  good  ; 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  265 

the  worse  the  wind  blew,  the  better  she 
should  like  it.  She  told  no  one ;  but  slipped 
out  of  the  house,  and  took  the  old  path,  and 
it  really  at  first  seemed  to  put  life  into  her. 
But  the  place  was  no  longer  the  same,  and 
as  she  sat  on  the  rock  it  seemed  as  if  she 
were  in  a  different  world  from  when  she  sat 
there  some  four  months  previously.  The 
wind  howled  down  the  gorge,  and  wrestled 
fiercely  with  the  beech-trees,  that  groaned 
and  tossed  their  bare  boughs.  There  was  a 
cold  chill  over  everything,  as  of  death.  It 
seemed  like  the  cemetery  wherein  she  had 
laid  all  her  hopes  and  joys,  and  she  moaned 
aloud,  as  Thekla  might  have  done  — 

"Mein  Herz  ist  gestorben,  die  Welt  ist  leer, 
Und  weiter  giebt  sie  dem  Wiinschen  nichts  mehr. 
Du  Heilige  rufe  dein  Kind  zuriick ; 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gliick, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet." 

She  had  lived  and  loved,  and  that  was  all 
over. 

As  she  sat  there,  almost  forgetting  the 
time,  a  fiercer  blast  than  usual  assailed  the 
trees,  and  the  rain,  cold  and  piercing,  fell  in 
sheets.  She  rose,  wrapped  closely  round  her 
her  shawl,  covering  her  head,  and  hastened 
home.  But  she  was  weak ;  the  way  was  not 


266  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

short ;  the  woods  were  deluged  with  water. 
Her  shoes  were  soaked  through,  and  her 
dress  was  saturated,  and  clung  to  her  skin  ; 
and  when  she  arrived  at  the  Casetta  she  was 
chilled  to  the  bone,  and  her  teeth  chattered 
with  the  freezing  cold.  Nearly  exhausted, 
she  pushed  open  the  door,  and  stood  before 
her  grandmother  dripping  wet,  and  \vith  a 
hot  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

"Madonna  mia!"  cried  Gigia,  "where 
have  you  been,  child  ?  What  a  sight  you 
are  !  I  thought  you  were  in  your  room.  Go 
up  and  change  your  dress,  and  put  on  some 
dry  things  at  once.  Come !  I  will  go  with 
you  and  help  you.  How  could  you  be  so  im 
prudent?" 

"  I  did  not  expect  it  would  rain,  Nonna. 
It  came  so  suddenly,  and  I  was  caught  in 
it." 

Scolding  and  petting  her  alternately,  Gigia 
went  to  her  room  and  helped  her  change  her 
dress,  and  then  brought  her  down  and  bade 
her  sit  before  the  fire  and  warm  herself 
thoroughly,  for  she  was  still  very  cold.  But 
it  seemed  to  be  of  no  use.  She  could  not 
get  warm  —  a  creeping  chill  seemed  to  thrill 
all  over  her;  and  Gigia  was  alarmed  and 
put  her  to  bed,  and  gave  her  something  warm 
to  drink. 


FIAMMETTA.  267 

The  next  morning  she  was  in  a  high  fever, 
and  the  doctor  was  at  once  sent  for ;  but  he 
unfortunately  was  away  on  his  rounds,  and 
the  message  came  that  he  had  been  called  to 
a  poor  woman  some  miles  off,  who  was,  it 
was  feared,  dying;  but  perhaps  he  would 
return  that  night,  and  perhaps  the  next  day, 
all  depended  on  circumstances,  but  that  he 
would  come  up  as  soon  as  he  returned  and 
see  Fiammetta.  Misfortunes  always  come 
together,  and,  as  it  happened,  the  doctor  was 
detained  by  the  old  woman's  illness,  and  by 
some  friends,  who  prevailed  upon  him  to 
stay  for  a  couple  of  days ;  and  hearing  noth 
ing  more  of  Fiammetta's  illness,  he  did  not 
come  till  three  days  were  past.  Then  he  was 
carried  at  once  into  her  room.  She  was  in 
a  high  fever,  and  quite  out  of  her  mind; 
sometimes  laughing  wildly,  sometimes  weep 
ing  and  raving  of  all  sorts  of  persons  and 
things,  and  crying  out  for  some  one,  whose 
name  she  never  mentioned  but  as  signor. 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  carefully,  felt 
her  pulse,  and  made  his  diagnosis.  "  How 
long  has  she  been  thus  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  is  now  three  days,"  said  Gigia, 
ing.     "  Oh  !  what  shall  we  do  for  her  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  not  call  me  before  ?  " 


268  FIAMMETTA. 

"  We  sent  for  you  three  days  ago,  doctor : 
but  you  were  gone  away." 

"  Very  unfortunate,"  he  said ;  and  he 
looked  very  grave. 

"Will  she  die?"  cried  Gigia. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  he.  "  We  shall 
pull  her  through,  I  hope."  Then  he  gave 
the  most  careful  directions  as  to  her  treat 
ment,  and  left  her,  promising  to  return  the 
next  day.  "But  it  is  a  long  pull,  you 
know,  Sora  Gigia,"  he  said.  "  It  is  nearly 
eight  miles,  and  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was. 
However,  I  will  come  back  surely.  And 
mind  you  do  everything  I  have  told  you, 
and  be  careful." 

He  kept  his  promise,  and  returned  day 
after  day,  and  the  fever  soon  began  to 
abate  ;  and  after  a  week  she  was  sane  again, 
though  wretchedly  weak  and  worn,  and  the 
only  question  was  if  her  strength  would 
hold  out. 

One  day  she  turned  to  Gigia,  and  said, 
"  Nonna,  I  want  you  to  ask  Padre  Anselmo 
to  come  and  see  me.  I  should  like  to  see 
him." 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  you  wish  ;  but  what 
can  you  want  to  see  him  for  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  ;  I  have  a  fancy 
to  see  him,"  she  said. 


FIAMMETTA.  269 

Padre  Anselmo  was  accordingly  sent  for, 
and  he  came.  He  was  an  honest,  simple- 
hearted,  good  old  man,  who  had  made  him 
self  beloved  by  all  his  parish  —  tall,  spare, 
with  large,  dark,  kindly  eyes,  and  thin  white 
hair. 

"Thank  you,  Padre,  so  much,  for  com 
ing,"  said  Fiammetta.  "I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you  alone,  please,"  —  she  whispered  this 
to  him,  —  "  alone  —  send  everybody  out." 

The  room  was  accordingly  cleared,  and 
Padre  Anselmo  took  a  seat  by  the  bed,  and 
she  stretched  out  her  thin  wan  hand  and 
placed  it  in  his. 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  what  did  you  wish 
to  say  to  me  ?  You  have  committed  no 
mortal  sin,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile,  "  of  which  you  wish  to  make  confes 
sion  and  obtain  absolution  ?  " 

"  No,  Padre,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do  not  know 
that  I  have  committed  any  mortal  sin,  but  I 
do  want  to  make  a  confession." 

44  Well,  my  dear,  I  will  listen  to  it." 

So  she  told  her  simple  story  :  how  Marco 
had  come  and  had  wished  her  to  be  his 
model  for  the  Naiad ;  how  they  had  spent 
long  days  together  talking  while  he  painted 
his  picture  ;  how  kind  and  good  and  friendly 


270  F I  AM  M ETTA. 

he  was  to  her ;  how  they  had  rambled  to 
gether  through  the  woods,  and  sat  by  the 
streams,  and  gradually  a  new  world  of  sen 
sations  and  feelings  had  opened  before  her ; 
and  how,  almost  before  she  knew  it,  he  had 
become  the  only  one  person  on  earth  she 
cared  for. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  Padre.  I  loved 
him  —  I  loved  him ;  and  I  love  him  still 
with  all  my  soul !  To  me  there  is  no  one 
else  in  the  world.  And  he  is  gone,  and  I 
never  shall  see  him  again,  and  I  don't  wish 
to  live  any  longer.  There  is  nobody  I  can 
say  this  to  but  you ;  and  oh !  I  feel  that  I 
must  say  it  to  somebody.  I  have  done 
nothing  wrong,  Padre,  believe  me  —  I  have 
done  nothing  wrong ;  but  I  am  so  unhappy." 

"  No,"  said  Padre  Anselmo.  "  As  you 
tell  your  story,  you  seem  to  me  to  have  done 
nothing  wrong.  If  the  wrong  is  anywhere, 
it  is  on  his  side." 

"  Oh,  no !  no,  no !  Do  not  say  that !  He 
never  did  anything  wrong,  he  could  not." 

"  He  stole  your  heart  away  —  in  a  care 
less  way  —  at  best.  He  should  have  knowii 
better.  He  was  not  simple  and  true  as  you 
have  been,  dear  child." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  anything  against  him !  " 
she  implored. 


F1AMMETTA.  271 

"No,  it  is  of  no  use  now:  I  will  not. 
And  he  —  did  lie  not  love  you  ?  did  he  never 
tell  you  so?" 

"  Never  ;  but  I  think  he  does  love  me  — 
not  as  I  love  him,  but  he  pities  me;  and, 
after  a  certain  way,  he  loves  me.  Yes:  I 
am  sure  he  does." 

"  Did  he  never  try  to  lead  you  astray  ?  " 

"Lead  me  astray?  Oh,  no!  He  made 
me  love  him,  that  is  all,  but  that  was  not 
his  fault.  Oh,  Padre,  I  did  once  throw  my 
self  upon  his  neck,  when  he  was  going  away, 
and  beg  him  to  carry  me  with  him.  I  ought 
not  to  have  done  that,  I  know  ;  but  I  was 
afraid  I  should  lose  him  forever,  and  I  was 
wretched,  and  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Ah !  he  told  me  it  was  impossible,  and 
was  wrong,  and  he  tried  to  console  me.  Oh, 
he  was  very  good  and  kind  !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  Padre,  and  he  shook 
his  head  sadly,  and  then  said,  "  Well,  my 
daughter,  there  has  been  no  wrong  done,  as 
far  as  I  understand,  and  you  must  think  no 
more  about  it ;  don't  be  troubled." 

"  Ah5  that  is  impossible  !  I  lie  here  and 
think  it  all  over  and  over  and  over  —  all  the 
words  he  said,  all  the  happy  days.  Oh,  Pa- 


272  F I  AM M  ETTA. 

dre  mio  !  there  is  only  one  thought,  one  wish 
in  my  heart,  and  that  is  to  see  him  again. 
I  must  —  I  must  see  him  again  before  I 
die!" 

"  Before  you  die,  my  child  ?  Oh,  you  are 
not  going  to  die,  I  hope,  for  many  a  long 
day  to  come." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am.  I  know  it  —  I  feel  it. 
I  am  dying  now;  and  all  that  I  wish  is  to 
see  him  once  more  —  only  once.  That  would 
make  me  happy.  And  I  want  to  ask  you  to 
do  something  for  me." 

"  What  is  it,  my  daughter  ?  If  it  be  pos 
sible,  I  will  do  it." 

"  I  want  you  to  write  to  him,  and  to  tell 
him  that  I  am  dying — do  not  shake  your 
head,  I  am,  and  I  know  I  am  —  and  to  say 
to  him  that,  if  he  will  come  and  let  me  see 
him  once  more,  I  shall  die  happy  !  I  think 
he  will  come.  I  know  it  is  asking  a  great 
favor,  but  I  do  so  long  to  see  him.  I  can 
not  die  without  seeing  him.  Oh,  Padre 
mio!  do  this  for  me,  and  I  will  bless  you 
forever!" 

She  had  fallen  back  on  her  pillow,  and 
gazed  at  him  with  her  large  eyes  —  now 
larger  and  deeper  with  the  ravage  of  the 
fever  —  with  so  piteous  an  expression,  that 


FIAMMETTA.  273 

the  tears  came  into  the  old  Padre's  eyes,  and 
he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  hers,  and  said, 
after  a  few  minutes,  — 

"I  will  do  it,  my  child  —  I  will  do  it. 
Don't  agitate  yourself ;  I  will  write  to  him 
at  once,  and  pray  him  to  come.  There  can 
be  no  harm  in  that ;  and  do  you  lie  still  and 
strive  to  sleep,  and  leave  it  all  to  me." 

She  was  still  for  a  few  minutes,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  lips  moving  as  if  she  were  pray 
ing.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes,  looked  at 
him,  and  said,  — 

"I  could  not  say  this  to  Nonna.  I  am 
afraid  she  would  not  understand,  and  I  have 
always  kept  this  secret  from  her.  I  knew  it 
would  make  her  unhappy.  You  must  not 
tell  her,  Padre." 

"  I  will  say  nothing  to  her  about  it,"  he 
answered.  "  Now  lie  still  and  try  to  sleep, 
and  believe  that  all  will  come  right  at 
last.  You  must  try  to  be  quiet,  and  grow 
stronger." 

"I  will,"  she  said,  "now  that  I  may  hope 
to  see  him.  You  will  write  at  once,  will  you 
not  ?  There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  I  will  go  and  write  this  very  moment." 

Padre  Anselmo  then  went  away,  touched 
by  this  sad  story.  There  was  no  time,  as  he 

18 


274  F I  AM  MET  T A. 

knew,  to  lose,  and  he  wrote  to  Marco  im 
mediately  the  following  letter :  — 

"  To  the  Most  Honorable 

The  COUXT  MARCO  STERRONI,  Rome. 

"  SIGNOR  CONTE, —  I  have  just  come  from 
the  bedside  of  Fiammetta  of  the  Casetta, 
and  it  is  at  her  special  request  that  I  write 
to  you.  She  is  very  ill,  and  I  am  afraid 
there  is  but  little  hope  that  she  will  recover. 
She  has  told  me  frankly  the  whole  story  of 
her  relations  to  you,  and  has  begged  me  to 
ask  you,  if  it  be  possible,  to  come  and  see 
her.  The  poor  child  has  so  set  her  heart  on 
this  that  I  pray  you,  if  it  be  possible,  to 
grant  her  request.  It  would  be  to  her  a 
great  consolation  —  perhaps  it  might  save 
her.  Alas !  we  know  so  little  how  to  help 
each  other  in  this  life,  that  possibly  your 
presence  might  do  for  her  what  all  our  medi 
cines  and  prayers  may  fail  to  effect.  There 
fore  it  is  that  I  pray  you  earnestly  to  come. 
She  is  very  weak,  very  ill ;  but  she  says  she 
cannot  die  without  seeing  you.  Let  us  hope 
that  she  will  yet  live  ;  but  at  all  events  come 
if  you  can  and  at  once  if  you  wish  to  see  her. 

With  much  esteem,  I  am,  your  faithful 
servant,  PADRE  ANSELMO,  Curato" 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

IT  was  a  chill  night  in  February,  and 
Marco  and  Carlo  were  sitting  before  a  good 
fire,  and  talking  gayly  of  many  matters  — 
art,  friends,  gossip.  The  rain  beat  on  the 
panes  with  frequent  gusts  of  wind,  and  the 
chimney  roared  as  the  flames  quivered  and 
darted  up  its  blackened  throat.  They  had 
been  dining  out  together  with  a  friend,  and 
now  they  were  sitting  and  discussing  calmly 
some  of  the  opinions  which  had  there  been 
expressed.  There  was  a  comfort  in  feeling 
well  housed  in  a  pleasant  room,  amid  books 
and  pictures,  while  the  storm  raged  with 
out.  Perhaps  by  way  of  contrast,  while  they 
were  talking  and  dropping  into  occasional 
silences,  or  perhaps  for  some  other  hidden 
reason,  their  thoughts  went  back  to  the  sum 
mer  life  of  Marco,  the  idyl  of  the  Naiad's 
Nook  and  Fiammetta,  and  they  began  to 
talk  of  her.  -^ 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Marco,  "  I  have  an  in 
satiable  longing  to  see  her  again,  and  to 


276  FIAMMETTA. 

hear  her  voice.  Of  course,  she  was  very 
sweet  and  gentle ;  and  at  times  the  old  at 
traction  draws  me  back  to  her  just  as  it  did. 
I  sit  and  look  at  that  picture,  and  revive  the 
pleasant  days  we  spent  in  the  mountains 
and  by  that  torrent.  It  was  an  enchanting 
spot.  I  shall  go  back  next  summer ;  but  I 
suppose  it  can  never  be  the  same  to  me 
again.  I  wonder  what  she  is  doing  now, 
dear  little  Fiainmetta?" 

As  he  was  saying  this,  a  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door.  Marco  rose  and  opened  it,  and 
a  letter  was  put  in  his  hand,  marked  "  Ur 
gent  "  on  the  envelope. 

"  Who  can  this  be  from  ?  "  he  said,  as  he 
examined  the  envelope  ;  "  I  do  not  recognize 
the  handwriting."  Yet  as  he  took  it  into 
his  hands  an  unaccountable  thrill  went  over 
him,  of  he  knew  not  what  —  a  presentiment 
of  something  wrong,  and  he  almost  hesitated 
upon  opening  it,  out  of  a  vague  fear. 

"  Is  there  any  answer  required  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  signer,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  I  was 
told  to  leave  it.  There  was  no  answer,"  and 
the  bearer  went  away. 

Marco  came  to  the  light  and  opened  it. 
Carlo  saw  a  sudden  expression  of  horror 


F I  AM M ETTA.  277 

come  over  Marco's  face,  and  exclaimed, 
"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Read,"  said  Marco,  throwing  the  letter 
down  before  Carlo.  "  Good  God  !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  and  paced  the  room,  without  an 
other  word,  in  a  state  of  great  agitation. 

Carlo  read  the  letter,  and  was  shocked. 
It  was  from  Padre  Anselmo.  He  looked  at 
Marco,  and  cried,  "  Poor  Fiammetta !  You 
will  go,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Go  ?  Of  course  —  instantly.  Good 
God !  " 

He  could  say  no  more,  the  shock  was  too 
great.  His  hands  trembled,  he  did  not  know 
what  he  was  doing  for  a  few  moments.  He 
took  up  and  replaced  book  after  book,  arti 
cle  after  article,  on  the  table  mechanically, 
while  his  thoughts  ran  wild.  Then  he  cried, 
"There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  When 
does  the  train  leave  to-night  ?  "  He  looked 
at  his  watch.  "  It  is  ten,"  he  said.  "  The 
train  leaves  at  eleven,  does  it  not  ?  " 

-Yes." 

"  Look  it  out,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  does." 

"  There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Come 
and  help  me  put  some  things  into  my  valise. 
I  don't  know  what  I  am  about.  Help  me, 
Carlo." 


278  F I  AM  M  ETTA. 

Carlo  did  so.  They  hurriedly  packed  the 
fey  necessary  things  into  the  valise,  and 
Carlo  ran  out  to  call  a  cab.  It  seemed  an 
hour  to  Marco  before  it  arrived.  "Poor 
Fiammetta  !  Poor  Fiammetta  !  "  he  cried  ; 
and  stretched  out  his  arms  as  if  she  could 
hear  him.  "  I  am  coming!  I  am  coming  !  " 
All  the  old  love  rushed  over  him  again,  all 
the  old  days  came  back,  and  a  pity,  a  deep 
and  poignant  pity,  possessed  him.  "  Live, 
live !  Fiammetta !  dear  little  Fiammetta  ! 
I  am  coining!  Good  heavens!  Where  is 
the  cab  ?  I  shall  be  too  late.  No ;  there  it 
is  at  last." 

He  grasped  his  valise  and  hurried  down 
to  meet  it,  and  the  two  friends  rushed  as 
fast  as  the  horse  could  gallop  to  the  train. 
They  were  just  in  time  to  catch  it.  He 
leaped  in,  shook  Carlo  by  the  hand,  said, 
"  I  will  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  arrive. 
Good-by,"  and  he  was  off. 

It  was  a  dreary  night.  The  train  rattled 
and  clanged  along  through  the  dark.  The 
rain  poured,  the  winds  blew,  and  within 
Marco's  breast  there  was  a  storm  that  made 
the  outward  world  seem  nothing.  On  and 
on  and  on  it  went,  oh  !  so  slow,  so  slow.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  had  never  gone  so  slowly,  and 
as  if  the  night  had  never  been  so  long. 


FIAMMETTA.  279 

Meantime  Fiammetta  grew  gradually 
weaker ;  but  still  a  little  light  of  hope 
burned  in  her  breast,  though  it  flickered 
often  as  a  breath  of  fear  blew  upon  it. 
"  Would  he  come  ?  would  he  come  ?  "  This 
was  her  perpetual  thought.  There  was  little 
hope  in  the  minds  of  those  who  surrounded 
her ;  and  Gigia,  after  tending  her  as  well  as 
she  could,  would  creep  into  the  corner,  or 
sit  over  the  fire,  and  hide  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  weep. 

Sometimes  Fiammetta  saw  this,  and  then 
she  said,  "  Don't  cry,  Nonna ;  it  is  all  for 
the  best." 

"  Oh,  Fiammetta  !  "  she  said,  "  don't  say 
so  ;  you  must  get  well." 

"  Yes,  Nonna,"  she  answered,  "  if  you 
won't  cry;"  and  then  she  would  ask,  "Is 
Nonno  well?" 

Once,  after  lying  still  for  a  long  time,  and 
apparently  sleeping,  she  said,  "  Nonna !  " 

"  What,  dear  ?  " 

"Tell  Andrea  I  forgive  him,  and  I  am 
sorry  I  treated  him  so." 

"  Yes,  dear ;  but  don't  trouble  yourself 
about  Andrea." 

"  I  was  very  harsh  and  cruel  to  him, 
Nonna.  You  must  ask  him  to  forgive  me." 


280  FIAMMETTA. 

And  then  she  lay  again  silent,  while  Gigia 
sat  by  the  fire.  It  was  sad  enough  in  that 
room.  The  flickering  fire  cast  grotesque 
shadows  on  the  walls,  that  wavered  and 
hovered  on  the  ceiling,  as  the  flame  died 
down  and  then  shot  fitfully  up  again.  The 
rain  beat  on  the  windows,  and  a  long  con 
stant  lamentation  was  in  the  trees.  It  was 
two  days  now  since  the  letter  of  Padre  An- 
selmo  had  gone,  and  it  should  now  have 
arrived,  she  thought. 

The  old  clock  below  ticked  and  ticked 
away  the  seconds,  one  by  one,  as  they  went 
irrecoverably  away  forever.  At  last  it 
buzzed  a  moment  and  struck.  Fiammetta 
counted  it  silently,  but  unconsciously,  for 
she  was  half  asleep.  As  it  struck  the  last 
stroke  for  ten  o'clock,  she  started  up,  ex 
tended  her  hands,  a  gleam  of  joy  went  over 
her  face,  and  she  cried  in  a  low  voice,  "  He 
is  coming !  he  is  coming !  I  see  him  !  he  is 
coming !  " 

Gigia  went  to  her  side,  and  asked  her 
what  she  wanted. 

"  Nothing,  now,  Nonna.  I  am  so  much 
better  now." 

For  a  while  she  lay  still  in  a  happy  dream. 
He  was  coming.  She  should  see  him.  That 


F I  AM  M  ETTA.  281 

was  all  she  wanted.  Then  she  could  die, 
but  she  could  not  die  till  then. 

Two  other  long,  lingering  nights  passed. 
Towards  morning  of  the  second  night  she 
awoke  from  a  peaceful  sleep.  Gigia  had 
also  fallen  asleep,  wearied  out  with  watching 
and  anxiety,  and  the  footsteps  of  Antonio 
were  heard  below,  as  he  carefully  opened  a 
window  to  let  in  the  first  morning  light. 
He,  too,  poor  man,  had  been  greatly  trou 
bled,  and  came  constantly  back  from  his 
work  to  see  how  Fiammetta  was,  and  to  try 
to  cheer  her ;  but  there  was  little  cheer  in 
his  heart  to  give.  He  could  fix  his  mind 
upon  nothing  but  her.  Though  he  felt  that 
he  was  worse  than  useless  when  he  came,  he 
still  came  constantly  to  look  at  her. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  footsteps  below  that 
waked  Fiammetta,  but  she  did  awake,  and 
in  a  moment  cried,  with  a  rapture  in  her 
face  as  if  a  vision  of  joy  had  risen  before 
her,  "  He  is  there !  I  see  him !  he  is  com 
ing  through  the  wood !  he  is  coming !  "  and 
she  strove  to  lift  herself  up,  looking  with 
large  visionary  eyes  out  on  the  distance. 

"  Who  is  coming?  "  said  Gigia. 

"  He  !  he !  I  see  him.  Oh,  so  fast  he  is 
coming,  and  he  is  crying ;  oh,  don't  cry, 


282  FIAMMETTA. 

don't  cry,  signer !  He  is  not  on  foot ;  he 
is  galloping,  galloping.  I  am  afraid  Jiis 
horse  will  stumble,  he  is  urging  him  so  fast. 
He  does  not  look  well.  But  he  is  coming. 
Yes ;  there  he  is  down  by  the  turning.  Yes, 
I  hear  you.  I  will  wait.  I  am  so  happy." 

"  What  do  you  see,  dear  ?  "  said  Gigia. 
"  You  are  dreaming." 

"  Don't  speak,  Nonna,  or  I  can't  hear  him. 
Silence  !  listen !  listen !  there  he  is  !  " 

Gigia  listened.  The  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  sounded  in  the  court  before  the  house. 
The  rider  leaped  from  his  horse.  Gigia 
heard  a  few  muttered  and  hurried  words. 
She  went  to  the  window,  but  saw  only  the 
horse  reeking  and  panting.  In  a  moment 
footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  quickly 
but  lightly  ascending.  The  door  opened, 
and  Marco  entered. 

"  Oh,  signer  !  "  cried  Fiammetta,  "  I  knew 
I  should  see  you  again.  Oh,  I  am  so  happy !  " 
and  she  lifted  her  wan  arms  towards  him,  and 
a  radiant  smile  was  on  her  face. 

"  Dear  Fiammetta !  "  he  cried,  as  he  came 
to  her  side,  and  took  her  hands,  that  she 
held  out  to  him,  and  bent  over  her  and 
gazed  into  her  sad,  worn  face.  "  Dear  Fiam 
metta  !  you  see  I  have  come.  You  must  now 


F I  AM M ETTA.  283 

get  well.  Promise  me  you  will  get  well.  I 
am  so  grieved  to  see  you  so  ill  and  weak." 

She  looked  up  to  him,  and  a  radiant  smile 
illuminated  her  face,  as  she  softly  said,  "  Oh, 
I  am  well  now.  I  am  happy  —  so  happy  — 
so  happy !  " 

Then  her  arms  unclasped  from  his  neck, 
round  which  she  had  thrown  them,  and  she 
sank  back  on  her  pillows.  He  leaned  over 
her,  printed  a  kiss  on  her  forehead,  and 
said,  — 

"You  will  get  well  now,  will  you  not,  for 
my  sake  ?  " 

But  she  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her 
anxiously.  "  She  has  fainted  !  "  he  cried ; 
"  some  water  !  " 

No ;  she  had  not  fainted.  She  had  gone, 
with  a  beatified  smile  on  her  face,  where  110 
human  voice  could  reach  her  to  whisper  of 
love.  It  was  all  over ;  the  pain,  the  doubt, 
the  fear,  the  sweet  human  joy,  and  the  Sum 
mer  Idyl. 

They  laid  her  away  to  rest  in  the  village 
cemetery,  where  four  solemn  cypresses  cast 
their  creeping  shadows  over  her  grave, 
slowly  moving  with  the  passing  days  from 
morning  till  night,  like  gnomons  of  the  dial 


284  F1AMMETTA. 

of  Time.  Here,  where  she  slept  at  last  in 
peace,  Marco  erected  a  marble  cenotaph,  on 
which  was  simply  inscribed  her  name,  and 
the  dates  of  her  birth  and  death,  with  these 
few  lines  underneath  — 

"  Pura  Fiammetta  spandeva  sa  noi 
Luce  divina.     Iddio  1'accese 
Lascio  brillarci  per  poco,  e  poi 
Presto  a  se  la  riprese." 

And  here  in  the  summer  days  many  an  hour 
he  spent,  sadly  musing  and  dreaming  over 
the  joy  that  had  gone  never  to  return,  and 
burdened  with  an  aching  thought  that  lay 
like  a  heavy  stone  on  his  conscience. 


THE  END. 


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